


Friday

by girlpire



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angel also being love's bitch but not realizing it for most of the story, Angst, Award Winner, Begging, Bottom Angel (BtVS), Bottom Spike (BtVS), Drugs, Epic Love, Feels, Felching, Groundhog Day, Hot Tub Sex, Humor, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mystery, Oral Sex, POV Second Person, Prostate Milking, Resolved Sexual Tension, Rimming, Romance, Rough Sex, Shower Sex, Slow Burn, Spangel, Spike being love's bitch, Time Loop, Time Travel, Top Angel, Top Spike (BtVS), Vampire Biting, a conversation about wearing panties, a normal-sized forehead, little more angst, massage sex, not warning for certain things because they eventually get fixed, past Angelus/Spike, porny gay porn, repeating day trope, slow gentle sex, something for everyone really, vampire kissing practice, weeping like babymen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:14:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 70,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26865721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlpire/pseuds/girlpire
Summary: Today is the longest day of Angel's life, and the only person who understands is the last person he wants to be around.Today is the shortest day of Spike's life. He just doesn't know it.If you only had one day to live the rest of your eternity, how would you spend it? Who would you spend it with?
Relationships: Angel/Spike (BtVS), Winifred "Fred" Burkle/Wesley Wyndam-Pryce
Comments: 58
Kudos: 121





	1. The Long Day

**Author's Note:**

> _"Experience isn't interesting until it begins to repeat itself. In fact, till it does that, it hardly is experience."  
>  \- Elizabeth Bowen_
> 
> _"What we do today, right now, will have an accumulated effect on all our tomorrows."  
>  \- Alexandra Stoddard_
> 
> _"What if there is no tomorrow? There wasn't one today."_  
>  \- Groundhog Day
> 
> This story was written in nine parts and originally posted for Spring Spangel 2007 on Livejournal.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Spike falls in love, and Angel has a very long day.

Artwork by [[Biscaynian](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28696869)]

*  
  
You wake up to the sun on your face. Like always, you flinch for a fraction of a second before you remember where you are. Instinctual fear of sudden death by fire is better than an alarm clock.  
  
You lie in bed for five minutes with your eyes still closed, trying to hang onto that last wisp of a dream. But only five minutes, and then you let it go. You can’t remember what it was about anyway.  
  
You get up, shower, dress like always. All in black. It suits you. It suits your mood.  
  
Today is Friday. You’ve got that big meeting at two o’clock. Then you’ll probably take off early. No one will mind; you’re the big boss man, you can do whatever you want.  
  
You take a moment to consider how much you hate this life. Then you jab the down button on your private elevator and the doors open up and you step inside.  
  
This is how you start the day.  
  
*  
  
You’re sitting in your office reading Wesley’s notes about Ri’ipki etiquette when Spike comes in without knocking. You aren’t surprised to see him, never are these days, but for some reason he seems surprised to see you.  
  
“You’re here too,” he says. In this voice that sounds half confused and half suspicious.  
  
“I work here,” you tell him, not looking up. “Unlike some people, who prefer to live off the charity of others.”  
  
“Thought Evil Inc. was closed on Saturdays, is all.”  
  
You give him a look. “Today’s Friday, Spike.”  
  
He starts to say something in reply – likely a smartass comment – but then his brow furrows and he just stands there, looking as though he’s trying to remember something. Finally he just says, “Oh.”  
  
You look back down at the notes. Ri’ipkis are terribly offended by yawning. You hope the meeting this afternoon is brief.  
  
“So yesterday was Thursday, then.”  
  
“That’s usually how it works,” you tell him a little absently. “Thursday, then Friday. Tomorrow’s Saturday, in case you wondered.”  
  
He nods slowly, still looking at you like he doesn’t quite believe you’re there. But then he just walks away and you start on the notes again, trying not to be as tired as you feel.  
  
You eat lunch in Gunn’s office with Wesley, Gunn, and Lorne. Fred was too busy in her lab to take a break. You listen to them talk about all the good Wolfram and Hart is accomplishing. You listen to them not talk about the compromises.  
  
The meeting doesn’t go well. The Ri’ipkis want something you can’t give them. It runs long; you try not to yawn. You don’t get to leave early.  
  
That night you go up to the roof to think. You bring _Don Quixote_ in the original Spanish, but you don’t read it. You look at the lights of L.A. You look at the moon. You try to remember what your dream was.  
  
Around 11:30, you go for a walk. You come across two demons fighting in an alley; one of them is Spike. He kills the other. Purple blood spews out of its bulbous neck and across Spike’s boots. Spike looks up at you with that same confused expression he had this morning.  
  
“Angel, we need to talk,” he says.  
  
*  
  
You wake up to the sun on your face. Like always, you flinch for a fraction of a second before you remember where you are. It’s appropriate, you think, that every morning you’re afraid you’ll catch fire. You are a demon, after all, working in Hell.  
  
You lie in bed for five minutes with your eyes still closed, trying to hang onto that last wisp of a dream. But only five minutes, and then you let it go. You can’t remember what it was about anyway.  
  
You get up, shower, dress like always. All in black. It suits you.  
  
Today is Friday. You’ve got that big meeting at two o’clock. Then you’ll probably take off early.  
  
You hate this life.  
  
You jab the down button on your private elevator and the doors open up. You step inside.  
  
This is how you start the day.  
  
*  
  
A mug of blood is waiting on Harmony’s desk for you when you arrive. It says #1 Boss on the side, and you wonder if she’s having some kind of private joke at your expense, but you dismiss the idea when you remember it’s Harmony. She gives you a manila folder from Wesley. Etiquette notes. A Post-It stuck on top: “Angel, please review these notes before the meeting this afternoon. -WWP.”  
  
“So I was wondering if I could take off an hour early today,” Harmony says. “I mean, I’ve gotten all my work done already and there’s this really great sale at—”  
  
“Yeah, sure,” you tell her. Whatever.  
  
“Thanks, boss!” she calls. You’re already walking away.  
  
Spike is in your office. “Leave,” you tell him simply as you walk past. You sit at your desk, open the folder, pretend to be very interested in it for a few minutes. You make a mental note not to yawn during your afternoon meeting. You notice that Spike doesn’t leave, but you’re not surprised. Doesn’t really matter, as long as he’s not saying anything. But then he does.  
  
“Today’s Friday, isn’t it?” he says.  
  
“Yep,” you say, not looking up.  
  
“Again,” says Spike.  
  
“Happens every week,” you tell him. “Toward the end. I’ve started expecting it.”  
  
“Usually just the once, though,” says Spike. “Just... one time a week.”  
  
You look up at him. “Yeah, Spike. That’s how it works.” You’re about to explain the days of the week in very simple words for him, but he’s looking back at you with this completely bewildered expression. “What?” you ask.  
  
“You don’t remember,” he says. Like he’s figuring something out.  
  
“Remember what?”  
  
“Yesterday.”  
  
“Of course I remember yesterday,” you say. “I was there.”  
  
“No,” he says. “You remember Thursday.”  
  
You get the feeling you’re missing something here, but before you can ask what it is, Spike walks out. Which is good, because you had work to do anyway.  
  
At lunchtime, you meet Gunn and Wesley and Lorne in Gunn’s office. Fred was too busy in her lab to take a break. You listen to them talk about all the good things going on at Wolfram and Hart these days. No one seems to regret anything. Which is good.  
  
The two o’clock meeting doesn’t go well. The Ri’ipkis want something you can’t give them. You try not to yawn. You don’t get to leave work early like you’d hoped.  
  
At night you go up to the roof and stand near the edge. You bring _Don Quixote_ in the original Spanish, but you don’t read it. You look out at the lights of L.A. You look at the moon. You try to remember your dream.  
  
Around 11:30, you go for a walk. You come across two demons fighting in an alley; one of them is Spike. He kills the other one, rips its head clean off. Purple blood spews out of its bulbous neck and across Spike’s boots as its body falls to the ground. Spike looks at his boots, then over at you.  
  
“It’s just me,” he says. “I’m the only one.”  
  
“What are you talking about?” you ask.  
  
*  
  
You wake up to the sun on your face. Like always, you flinch for a fraction of a second before you remember where you are. Think you’d be used to it by now. Maybe you never will be.  
  
You lie in bed for five minutes with your eyes still closed, trying to hang onto that last trace of a dream. You can almost smell it. But only five minutes, and then you let it go. It’s too late. You don’t remember.  
  
You get up, shower, dress. You wear all black. Black suits you.  
  
Today is Friday. You’ve got that big meeting at two o’clock. Maybe afterwards you’ll take off early. No one would mind.  
  
You hate being here.  
  
You press the down button on your private elevator and the doors open up. You let the elevator swallow you whole.  
  
This is how you start the day.  
  
*  
  
Spike is waiting for you when the elevator doors open again. You’re a little startled, but you push by him without speaking, as though it’s perfectly natural for him to be there. You’ve only made it one step before he grabs you by the arm and hauls you back into the elevator, punches the button for your penthouse.  
  
“Spike, what the hell?” You wrench your arm back out of his grasp and the doors close. You feel yourself start to move up.  
  
“It’s Friday again,” says Spike through gritted teeth. He says it like it means something significant.  
  
“Yeah,” you tell him. “Happens every week.” You almost begin explaining the days of the week to him in very simple terms so he can understand, but then he takes a step closer and stares right up into your face. It’s kind of unnerving for him to be looking into your eyes so intently. “What?” you ask. His nose is barely three inches from yours.  
  
Suddenly he takes a step back and sighs. It’s a big, heaving sigh that makes his shoulders slump in his coat so that he looks much smaller than he really is. He leans back against the wall of the elevator and doesn’t look at you. “You don’t remember,” he says quietly. "Again."  
  
“Remember what? What’s gotten into you?”  
  
“Don’t know,” he says softly. “But it really is just me, isn’t it? I thought... maybe if you knew... but it doesn’t work that way.”  
  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The elevator stops at your penthouse and the doors open, but neither of you gets out. You reach over and press the down button again and the doors close. You start to move down. “What’s going on?” you want to know.  
  
“I could tell you,” says Spike. “But you’ll just forget again.”  
  
"You know you're even more annoying when you don't make any sense?"  
  
He gives you a look. "Don't worry, you won't remember."  
  
And he's right, you don't. Not until that night when you're standing on the roof of the building, looking out across the city. You realize you haven't seen Spike since early that morning, when he forced you into the elevator and proceeded to talk crazy at you for a couple of minutes before muttering something about putting things right. You still have no idea what he was talking about. You'll ask him about it tomorrow.  
  
Around 11:30, you go for a walk. You come across a largish, snarling demon in an alley, so you kill it. Purple blood spews from its bulbous neck and across your shoes. You try to remember what your dream was.  
  
*  
  
You wake up to the sun on your face. Like always, you flinch for a fraction of a second before you remember where you are. You wouldn't be jarred awake every morning if you just invested in some blinds or a curtain, but you know already that you'll never do that. You can't ignore what you are.  
  
You lie in bed for five minutes with your eyes still closed, trying to hang onto that last scent of your dream. But only five minutes, and then you let it slip away. It’s already too late.  
  
You get up, shower, dress. All black today. Like your mood.  
  
It's Friday. You’ve got that big meeting at two o’clock. Maybe you'll leave right afterwards. You can do that; you're the boss.  
  
You take a moment to consider how much you hate this life. Then you jab the down button on your private elevator and the doors open up. You step inside.  
  
This is how you start the day.  
  
*  
  
You're eating lunch with Wesley, Gunn, and Lorne in Gunn's office. Fred was too busy in her lab to take a break and join you. You're listening to them talk about the reasons taking over Wolfram and Hart was a good decision, all the good things going on. No one seems too unhappy about their new jobs, which is good.  
  
Then Wesley asks, "Have any of you spoken with Spike today?" No one has. Wesley considers this, and you're almost afraid of whatever's coming next. What did Spike do this time?  
  
"He's acting a bit... odd," Wesley continues. "None of you have noticed?"  
  
"He seemed alright yesterday," says Gunn. "Why, what did he do?"  
  
"He asked to borrow a book," says Wes. "Which, in itself, isn't strange. I know he was an avid reader back before he was turned." He glances at you for confirmation, so you give a little nod. Then he says, "It was just... the particular book he wanted was a rare volume discussing archaic rituals to manipulate time and space using powerful magicks. Not the sort of thing one would expect Spike to be interested in."  
  
"Did he say what he wanted it for?" you ask.  
  
"He said he wanted to look at the pictures," Wesley says. "Some of them are... quite provocative, I admit. But he asked for this text specifically by name and was careful to designate which translation he wanted, although the images are the same in each. I believe he was actually reading it."  
  
You brace yourself for the worst before asking, “Does the book explain how to cast actual spells?”  
  
“Oh, no,” says Wesley, and you try not to show how relieved you are. “Nothing like that. It’s mostly a collection of essays discussing the theory behind the magicks, what sort of rituals are used by different ethnic or demonic groups, how it all works. No recipes, though. It’s only used for research.” He looks a bit sheepish and adds, “To be honest, I didn’t even know my department possessed a copy until Spike asked for it this morning.”  
  
“Kinda makes you wonder how Blondie knew,” says Gunn.  
  
“It was the strangest thing,” Wesley agrees. “But the most interesting part about it was his pronunciation of the title. It was flawless.”  
  
“What's so interesting about that?” Lorne asks. “I mean, how hard is it to say the title of a book?”  
  
“Well,” says Wesley. “It took me two weeks to learn to say _Krhlpp’prfims-Syfdncwessznax_. And that’s only the first word.”  
  
When the meeting with the Ri’ipkis begins at two o’clock, you’re preoccupied. You haven’t had a chance to speak to Spike yet, and it worries you that he’s been researching something without telling you what’s going on. You feel sure he wouldn’t do anything bad on purpose, but things have a way of backfiring around Spike... It’s just better if you know what he’s up to.  
  
The meeting doesn’t go well. They want something you can’t give them. It’s already late by the time you and your friends trudge out of the conference room. You hate all of this.  
  
After dinner, you go looking for Spike, but you don’t find him. You end up on the roof of the building, looking out over the city. It probably wasn’t that important anyway. You’ll ask him about it tomorrow.  
  
Around 11:30, you go for a walk. You come across two demons fighting in an alley; one of them is Spike, and you’re relieved. You watch him kill the other one, rip its head right off. Purple blood spews out of its bulbous neck and across Spike’s boots as its body falls to the ground. Spike looks up at you and grins.  
  
“Tomorrow,” he says. Like it’s a promise.  
  
*  
  
You wake up to the sun on your face. Like always, you flinch for a fraction of a second before you remember where you are.  
  
You lie in bed for five more minutes with your eyes closed. You know you dreamed something, but you can’t quite remember what it was. That always seems to happen.  
  
You get up, shower, dress. All black.  
  
Today is Friday. You’ve got that big meeting this afternoon. Damn.  
  
You straighten your collar and punch the elevator button. Touch your hair one more time.  
  
This is how you start the day.  
  
*  
  
You’re sitting in your office reading Wesley’s notes about Ri’ipki etiquette when Spike comes in without knocking. You aren’t surprised to see him, never are these days, and you’re fully prepared to ignore him. You don’t even look up.  
  
Suddenly, Spike produces a wooden bowl and flings its contents at you with a few muttered words in Latin. You get splashed in the face and chest with something oily and greenish that smells like oatmeal and is the consistency of creamed corn.  
  
You’re not quite sure how to react.  
  
You go for the first thing that pops in your head. “Spike, what the _fuck_!” You leap up from your chair and swipe a hand over your face, pushing the sticky globs off your skin and onto the floor with several soft plops. You can feel the juice sinking into your clothes. “What the _hell_ do you think you’re doing? What is this shit?”  
  
He’s watching you intently but seems completely unfazed by your anger. “What do you remember?” he asks. “Think. Hard.”  
  
“What do I... what? What the hell is wrong with you? Jesus Christ!” You’re trying to wipe the stuff off your chest, but you’re only managing to spread it around. This better not stain, or his ass is toast.  
  
“What do you _remember_ ,” Spike asks again, “about _yesterday_?” He’s looking at you like something very important depends on your answer.  
  
“What are you talking about?” you demand angrily. You get very close to his face so he can better appreciate your glare. He smells like cigarettes.  
  
Spike searches your eyes hopefully for a long moment. Then despair seems to overcome his features. He takes a few steps back and collapses forlornly onto the couch. He looks past you to the window and doesn’t say anything else.  
  
Shit. You don’t have time for these stupid games. You punch the button for Harmony’s desk, and when she answers, you say, “Get janitorial in here immediately.” You throw another world-class glare Spike’s way, but he’s just staring off into space, looking catatonic. “I’m going to change,” you tell him irritably. “Don’t be here when I get back.”  
  
When you do get back, he’s still there, still sitting on the couch and staring out the window with a blank expression. The muck is gone from the floor and your desk and chair, so someone must have been by to take care of it. “I thought I told you to be gone,” you say.  
  
He turns his head slowly to look at you. “That was it,” he says simply. “There’s nothing left.”  
  
You have no clue what he’s talking about, and you’re still mad at him. You say as much in your expression.  
  
“There’s no other... Look, I’ve tried everything,” he tells you. His face is carefully expressionless. Doesn’t even look like himself, really, without some kind of smirk or eyebrow thing going. His voice is soft, disbelieving. He looks almost lost.  
  
“Six potions,” he says. “Two blood sacrifices, four summonings, a fire dance. Five different witches and three sorcerers, not counting Percy. I even called Giles.” He huffs. “That was awkward.”  
  
You don’t get it. “Spike, I—”  
  
“Don’t know what I’m talking about,” he finishes for you. “I know. You never do.”  
  
“I do sometimes,” you argue. “When you make sense. Which is rare.”  
  
“It’s been weeks,” he says quietly. “Told you a hundred times. Told the others, too. We’ve had meetings. But it’s not enough time. It starts over.” He sighs heavily, closes his eyes. “How can there be an infinite amount of time,” he asks, “and still never enough?”  
  
You don’t remember the last time you saw Spike this genuinely upset. It’s a little strange, and you still don’t understand what he’s talking about, but you go over and sit on the couch next to him and try not to think about your favorite shirt covered in oily green oatmeal because he seems convinced that flinging it at you was the right thing to do at the time, although it failed to accomplish whatever it was he was going for.  
  
“Spike,” you say. “Tell me what’s going on. Maybe if I—”  
  
“—Understand what the problem is, I can help,” Spike says automatically. Then, “We’ll get Wesley on it. He’ll know what to do. Harmony, cancel my two o’clock. If what you’re claiming is actually happening, then we need to figure this thing out right away.” He looks over at you. “You always sound so sure of yourself. But you have no idea what you’re dealing with here.” He slumps back against the couch and looks toward the window again. “You make the same promises every day, Angel. And every day we end up right where we started. What’s even the point?”  
  
You’re staring at him now, trying to make sense of what he’s saying. You can’t.  
  
“Spike,” you start delicately, unsure how to phrase your next thought. “This isn’t something you’ll want to hear, but maybe it would do some good for you to—”  
  
“—Go up to level eight, talk to one of the counselors in the psych department,” interrupts Spike. “I’ve heard they do a world of good, especially after some kind of... traumatic event... like whatever you’ve gone through. Maybe they can even make you forget.” He shakes his head. “It’s no use, Angel.” After a significant pause, he says, “How far away from here d’you think I could get before midnight? In the Viper.”  
  
By this point, you’re so weirded out that you can literally think of nothing to say.  
  
“Don’t worry,” Spike says, standing. “You’ll have it back tomorrow.”  
  
*  
  
You wake up to the sun on your face. You flinch for a fraction of a second before you remember where you are. It’s like this every morning.  
  
You lie in bed for five more minutes with your eyes closed, trying to hang onto that last slip of a dream. But only five minutes.  
  
You get up, take a shower, dress. All in black.  
  
Today is Friday. You’ve got that big meeting at two o’clock. You’re sort of dreading it, but these things have to be done. Maybe you’ll take off early afterwards.  
  
You really hate this.  
  
You push the down button on your private elevator and the doors open up and you step inside.  
  
This is how you start the day.  
  
*  
  
A mug of blood is waiting on Harmony’s desk for you when you arrive. It says #1 Boss on the side, and you sort of resent it. She gives you a manila folder from Wesley. A Post-It note is stuck to the top.  
  
“So I was wondering if I could take off an hour early today,” Harmony says. “I mean, I’ve gotten all my work done already and there’s this really great sale at—”  
  
“Yeah, sure,” you tell her. Might as well.  
  
“Thanks, boss!” she calls, but you’re already walking away.  
  
You’re sitting in your office reading Wesley’s notes about Ri’ipki etiquette when your phone rings. It’s security. Apparently someone has smashed in the windows of every single car you own.  
  
You don’t quite believe what they’re telling you, so you go down to see for yourself. It’s true. Every single one is trashed. You don’t cry, but you do have to sit down.  
  
“It had to be someone with clearance, sir. No one else could have gotten in this way.”  
  
You’re eating lunch with Wesley, Gunn, and Lorne in Gunn’s office when the surveillance photos arrive. You all stare for a while.  
  
“I’m going to kill him,” you say. And you actually almost mean it this time.  
  
“Can you think of any reason why Spike would do something like this?” Wesley asks. You rack your brain, but nothing comes up. Nothing serious enough to warrant what he’s done.  
  
“Maybe it’s not him,” says Gunn.  
  
“Yeah, Angelcakes,” Lorne adds. “Maybe it’s some other bleached blond in a long black coat, with amazing cheekbones and security clearance. I could name a dozen of those right off the bat.”  
  
You just glare. You've been having a hard time with words ever since you saw what’s left of your cars.  
  
The meeting at two doesn’t go well. The Ri’ipkis want something you can’t give them.  
  
Afterwards, you don’t leave the office for quite some time. You can’t imagine what Spike could be so angry about that he would purposefully destroy the only things in your life that you actually like. You can’t stop thinking about it. You’re grateful that he didn’t show up today. You know you won’t be able to talk to him for a long time without losing it completely.  
  
Around 11:30, you go for a walk. You come across two demons fighting in an alley; one of them is Spike. He’s losing badly. You watch in disbelief as the other demon punches him in the gut repeatedly and he doesn’t even try to block, although he’s still fully conscious. He’s laughing. When he sees you, he lifts his hand in greeting and goes on getting pummeled.  
  
You step in and kill the demon yourself before Spike lets it go too far and kill him. Purple blood spews from its bulbous neck and across Spike’s body where the demon dropped him in the alley.  
  
“Thanks, mate,” Spike slurs drunkenly at you. “Didn’t know you... cared.” He coughs up some blood. The way he looks - broken teeth, broken ribs - reminds you of your cars. You clench your fists.  
  
“Spike, if that thing hadn’t already beaten you pulpy, I’d do it myself.”  
  
“Rain check,” he says. “How ‘bout tomorrow?” For some reason, he seems to find this extremely funny. His whole body convulses in what must be the most painful laughter you’ve ever heard. If you weren’t so mad, you’d probably think it was eerie.  
  
“Go home, Spike,” you tell him. “Tomorrow your ass won't be healed enough to kick anyway."  
  
He wheezes another laugh almost as eerie as the first. “You’d be surprised,” he says.  
  
*  
  
You wake up to the sun on your face. Like always, you flinch.  
  
You lie in bed for five more minutes with your eyes closed, trying to hang onto that last haze of a dream.  
  
You get up, take a shower, dress. All black.  
  
Today is Friday.  
  
You push the down button on your private elevator and the doors open up.  
  
This is how you start the day.  
  
*  
  
You take your mug of blood from Harmony's desk. She hands you a manila folder and you give her permission to go home early today. Spike is in your office when you walk in. “Leave,” you tell him simply as you walk past. He doesn't. You sit at your desk, open the folder, pretend to be very interested in it for a few minutes. You make a mental note not to yawn during your afternoon meeting.  
  
Out of nowhere, Spike says, "I'm sorry, Angel."  
  
You glance over at him. He's sitting on the couch, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He's staring down at his hands. You're not sure you heard him right. "What?" you ask.  
  
He swallows and looks up at you. "I'm sorry," he says. He looks sincere. You almost buy it.  
  
You put down the Ri'ipki etiquette notes in your hand. "What did you do?" you ask him. You're already telling yourself not to panic.  
  
"Nothing specific," he says quietly. "Not today, anyway. Just... sorry. For being me."  
  
It's weird how completely still he is. "Spike, what are you talking about?"  
  
"If I were anyone else," he says, "it would be over by now. I'm just a fuckup, Angel. Never could do anything right."  
  
You've got no idea what brought this on, and for a long moment, you say nothing. Then you tell him, "If you're looking for someone to argue against that, I'm probably not the right person."  
  
"No," he says. "Don't need an argument. Just stating a fact."  
  
"Okay," you say. You look back down at the notes. Spike makes no move to leave. After a while, he turns in his seat and stretches out, lying on his side on the couch. His eyes are open.  
  
A few minutes pass in silence. Normally, you'd be glad that he was so quiet, but today it's distracting. You can't concentrate with him just lying there not saying anything. You wonder what he's thinking about.  
  
"Angel," he finally says, not looking at you. "Let me stay with you today."  
  
You almost knock your mug over. For a second, you actually see it happen: dark, cooling liquid spreading across the papers on your desk. "What do you mean?" you ask.  
  
"I just want to... be here," he says. "With you. Spend the day together. Is that alright?"  
  
It's pretty much the last thing you expected to hear him say. "You want to... what, follow me around? The whole day?"  
  
"Yeah," he says. "Won't be any trouble, I promise. You won't even know I'm here."  
  
"Why would you want to do that?" you can't help but ask.  
  
He huffs a quiet laugh. "You wouldn't get it if I told you. "  
  
"Try me."  
  
He looks over at you but doesn't sit up. "Because when you don't have a future," he says, "you start thinking about the past. Missing it, even."  
  
You wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn't. "You're right," you tell him. "I don't get it."  
  
"I'm tired, Angel," he says. "And lonely. And it's never going to end." He pauses and sighs before going on, "But you and me, we have history. That's something I can't have with anyone else now. It's... comfortable, being with you. In a completely sad and ridiculous way." He stops again.  
  
"Spike, I think you've lost it," you say.  
  
"Yeah," he agrees. "Just don't ship me off to the loony bin yet. Want to spend the day with someone who knows me first."  
  
You shrug. "Fine. Don't talk or do anything stupid, and you can hang around for as long as you want."  
  
"Thanks," he says softly.  
  
Spike lies on your couch for most of the morning, arms folded behind his head, just staring up at the ceiling. He doesn't say much. You just sit at your desk and work as though he's not there. When you're done going over the notes, you start sorting through the other folders and papers on your desk, separating them into piles: signed, will sign with amendments, will never sign and you can't make me, and ask Wesley. Around lunchtime, you get a call from Gunn; he wants to know if you're still planning to eat with the rest of them. You ask if he minds if Spike comes with you, and after a startled pause, he says it's fine.  
  
Spike's looking at you when you hang up the phone. "Lunch," you tell him. "Come on."  
  
The two of you eat lunch in Gunn's office with Wesley, Gunn, and Lorne. Fred was too busy in her lab to take a break. You have someone bring in another mug for Spike and you give him half of your blood. They always order too much anyway. Lorne and Gunn exchange looks, but Wesley tactfully acts as though nothing is out of the ordinary. Spike sits off to the side while the other three men talk about Wolfram and Hart, all the good things going on here. A couple of times, Spike snorts as though he disagrees, but for the most part he doesn't say anything, for which you are grateful.  
  
The meeting with the Ri'ipkis doesn't go well. They heartily object to Spike's presence for whatever reason, so he finally just waits outside. The meeting runs long; they want something you aren't prepared to give them. When you finally come out, you're surprised to find that Spike is still there.  
  
"I thought you'd have found something else to do by now," you say.  
  
"Done everything else already," he replies simply. He follows you to your elevator.  
  
You pause. "I'm just going home now," you tell him.  
  
"Figured that."  
  
You didn't expect him to want to come with you, but he steps into the elevator just behind you, so you push the button for your penthouse and the ride up is quiet. You're tired.  
  
"You want a drink?" you ask when the doors open up.  
  
He follows you into your apartment. "If you're having one," he says.  
  
You go to the bar and pour two, hand one to Spike. He takes a sip, but you drink yours down in one.

"This what you normally do after work?" he asks as you pour yourself another.  
  
You shrug. "It's been a long day."  
  
Spike almost chokes on his drink as he starts laughing.  
  
"What's so funny?" you ask.  
  
He just shakes his head as though you wouldn't get it. Then he grins at you. "Fancy killing something?" he asks.  
  
You do, actually.  
  
Spike makes sure you're wearing a watch before the two of you head out. You take the Viper, Spike riding shotgun with a small smile. He directs you to this little shop in Chinatown, and you're both standing in the alley behind it exactly one minute before a Shtreent shows up clutching a victim. Together, you make short work of it.  
  
You gaze down at the puddle of goo that's left. "Thanks," you tell Spike. "I needed that."  
  
"Not done yet," he murmurs. He takes your wrist and looks at your watch. "Come on."  
  
You're waiting in a vampire nest downtown when three of the occupants show up. You and Spike dust them, then it's off to a cemetery to stop a group of kids summoning a demon (and a small detour to stake a new vampire rising in the same area), followed by pushing an old lady out of the way of an oncoming truck and beating a Yoruna to death with one of its own tentacles. Somehow, you manage to arrive just in time for each thing.  
  
The last stop you make is an alley not far from Wolfram and Hart, where you slay a largish, snarling demon by tearing its head off. Purple blood spews from its bulbous neck and across Spike's boots as its body falls to the ground. Spike seems pleased.  
  
"How did you know?" you finally ask him. You've been wondering for a while.  
  
He shrugs. "Doesn't matter. What matters is saving the day, yeah? Which we did."  
  
"Yeah. I guess we did." You smile at him. This evening's actually been sort of... pleasant. Slaying demons, helping people, driving your favorite car. You'd forgotten that Spike could be pretty good company when he wasn't trying to argue with you all the time. And you'd forgotten how much you enjoy watching him fight.  
  
"Tomorrow," offers Spike, "we can do the same thing again. If you want."  
  
"You know the exact schedule of several demons tomorrow too?" you ask.  
  
He just nods.  
  
You're a little suspicious, but it does sound like fun. You don't have any other plans anyway, so you tell him yes. Then, "You want to come back to my place?" you find yourself asking. "For another drink or something."  
  
He hesitates, then takes your wrist to look at your watch. "Almost midnight," he says.  
  
"We're vampires," you remind him. "We stay up late. It's a thing."  
  
"Maybe tomorrow." He hesitates again, then asks, "Think we could be friends, Angel?"  
  
It's not a question you expected to hear from him. But when you think about it, you're not completely opposed to the idea. "We used to be," you say.  
  
"D’you think you could forget everything that's happened since then?" he wants to know.  
  
You consider what he's asking. "I don't know, Spike. That kind of thing takes time. And like you said this morning, we've got a pretty long history."  
  
He nods slowly. "Right,” he says. “Just one more question."  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"What would you have done tonight, if you could have done anything you wanted?"  
  
*  
  
You wake up to the sun on your face. You flinch for a fraction of a second before you remember where you are.  
  
You lie in bed for five minutes with your eyes still closed, trying to hang onto that last whisper of a dream. But only five minutes, and then you let it go. It was already gone anyway.  
  
You get up, shower, get ready for work.  
  
Today is Friday. You’ve got that big meeting with the Ri'ipkis this afternoon.  
  
You take a moment to consider how much you hate this life. Then you press the button for your elevator.  
  
This is how you start the day.  
  
*  
  
You’re sitting in your office reading Wesley’s notes about Ri’ipki etiquette when Spike comes in without knocking. You aren’t surprised to see him, never are these days, and you’re fully prepared to ignore him. You don’t even look up.  
  
He stops in front of your desk. “Hey,” he says.  
  
“Leave,” you reply.  
  
He doesn’t say anything for a moment, but he doesn’t move either, so you glance up at him. He’s holding something small in his hand, looking down at it.  
  
You sigh. “What do you want, Spike?”  
  
Without preamble, he asks simply, “D’you want to go to a hockey match tonight?”  
  
Your eyebrows go up. “What?”  
  
“Ice hockey,” says Spike. “Tonight. The Kings versus the Calgary Flames.” You can see now that he’s holding a pair of tickets. “At seven.”  
  
You're staring at his hand. “Where did you get those?” you ask.  
  
He sets them down on your desk and you pick them up. They’re good seats. “Bought ‘em,” he says.  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Because they don’t let you in otherwise.”  
  
You look at the tickets for a moment. They’re definitely real. And it’s not like you’ve never seen hockey tickets before, but they’re pretty much the last thing you expected Spike to bring into your office and give to you this morning. “And you're asking me to go. With you.”  
  
“That was the idea, yeah,” he says.  
  
“Is this some kind of joke?” you have to ask.  
  
“No,” he says. And that’s all. No further explanation. Then he adds, “Don’t have other plans, do you?”  
  
“No,” you say slowly. But... something occurs to you. “Didn’t you just tell me a few days ago that you thought hockey was stupid?”  
  
Spike’s brow furrows like he doesn’t remember. “Did I?”  
  
"Yeah. On... Tuesday. You told me you thought it was stupid and only a bunch of 'bloody idiots' would like it."  
  
He looks sheepish for a moment, then shrugs it off. "Tuesday was a long time ago,” he says. “Maybe I've had a change of heart since then. Or maybe hanging around this place has turned me into a bloody idiot like you." You frown, but he's smiling a little good-natured smile - which is, yeah, sort of weird, but you let it go anyway. "What do you say, Angel?" he asks. "Pick you up at six thirty?"  
  
You hesitate. But it's hockey... and you can't remember the last time you went to a game... "Yeah, okay," you tell him. "Six thirty."  
  
Spike leaves the tickets with you and goes off to do whatever it is that he does on Fridays. You put the tickets in your pocket, and you find yourself touching them at various times throughout the day. You're not quite sure what to make of Spike's uncharacteristic thoughtfulness, and you're still kind of suspicious - like at any moment you're going to find out this is some kind of setup to embarrass you - but you also can't help looking forward to tonight. Calgary's not half bad this season. The last time LA played them, the Kings lost 3-2 in overtime. It could be a good game.  
  
You eat lunch in Gunn's office with Wesley, Gunn, and Lorne. Fred was too busy in her lab to take a break. The meeting with the Ri'ipkis begins at two, and Fred shows up just in time to join the rest of you before you meet them in the lobby, walk into the conference room together. It doesn't go well; they want something you can't give them. The meeting runs much, much longer than you expected.  
  
Spike's waiting when you come out of the conference room.  
  
"I thought you said six thirty," you tell him.  
  
"Figured we could get a bite first," he says. He glances down at his watch. When did he start wearing a watch? "Meeting went longer than usual," he comments.  
  
"There's a 'usual' amount of time to meet with Ri'ipkis?" you ask.  
  
"No, I just meant... nevermind." He smiles briefly, then holds up a paper bag. "Brought you something."  
  
You’re surprised at what you find inside. You pull it out and unfold it, hold it up to see it better. "A Kings jersey?" you say incredulously. "Spike... are you feeling alright?"  
  
He shrugs, grinning, and pulls a similar jersey from the bottom of the bag to show you. "Thought we could go as fans," he tells you. "S'my first hockey game. Technically. Want to do it proper, like."  
  
The very idea of Spike wearing a hockey jersey is almost too much. If he hadn't been standing there with a completely genuine look on his face, you'd be searching the office for hidden cameras. "I'll do it if you do it," you say, still kind of bewildered.  
  
"Deal, mate," he says with a smile. "Now how about dinner?"  
  
The two of you pick up some blood from the Wolfram and Hart employee cafeteria and carry it up to your penthouse to eat before you change clothes. You change in your bedroom, and when you come back out, Spike is pulling on his jersey over his black t-shirt. You don't laugh at the way he looks with it on, but you sort of want to. He reaches for his duster, but you stop him.  
  
"You can't cover it up with a coat," you tell him. "You want people to see it, right?"  
  
"Oh," he says. "Right." He looks at you in your jersey and smirks. "You pull this off better than I can," he says, and you grin.  
  
You have a good time at the game. In fact, you can't remember the last time you had this much fun. The seats are perfect, there's a huge crowd, and the Kings lead for the first two periods. Spike doesn't say much during the game, but he seems interested whenever a fight breaks out among the players. You spend about half the time forgetting that he's even there and the other half of the time explaining to him in explicit detail all of the rules, every play, and player statistics, to which he listens politely and nods when appropriate.  
  
During the third period, Spike glances at his watch and suddenly stands up. He tugs your arm. "Come on," he says urgently.  
  
You're engrossed in the game. "What?" you ask, not looking away from the ice.  
  
"Come _on_ ," he repeats, pulling you to your feet. He starts making his way down the row, dragging you after him. You follow reluctantly, eyes still glued to the match. You have no idea where he's taking you, but it turns out he's just moving to the other side of the rink. He finally stops and looks around. "Okay," he says. "Wait for it."  
  
You glance at him. "Wait for what? What are we doing over here?" You can still see your vacant seats, which were better than where you're standing now.  
  
"Just wait," he says enigmatically. He glances at his watch again.  
  
You stand there for about a minute, still watching the game, before Calgary's center suddenly hits a fly puck. It comes right toward where you and Spike are standing, and before you know it, you're holding it in your hand, palm stinging a little where the hard rubber slapped your skin as you caught it in the air. The people around you who stood up to try for it too are all smiling - although a couple of them look really jealous - and a guy behind you slaps your back and makes some kind of encouraging comment that gets lost in the noise. Spike is grinning broadly.  
  
"Holy shit." You shove the puck in Spike's face. "Look - I caught it."  
  
"Yeah," Spike says cheerfully. "Good on you, Peaches."  
  
"How did you know to come over here?" you ask him.  
  
He shrugs. "Lucky guess."  
  
The Kings lose to Calgary 3-2 (again), but it was a close game, and you had a lot of fun, so you're not too disappointed. The only disappointment is that it's over. You're tossing the puck back and forth in your hands as you and Spike walk back out to the car. You're still amped and don't really want to go back home yet, so you ask Spike if he wants to go for a drink. You'd forgotten that he could be pretty good company when he wasn't trying to argue with you all the time.  
  
He glances at his watch first, then agrees with a grin, and you take him to a sports bar - you can't really go any place classy the way you're dressed. You sit in a booth and Spike gets two beers, gives you one.  
  
"So," says Spike. "Enjoy the game?"  
  
"Yeah, it was great. Too bad we lost, though."  
  
"Yeah." He frowns. "Really no way to change that, is there? Short of playing the game ourselves."  
  
"Well, first we'd have to build a time machine. Hey, I'll get Fred on that." You grin. Then, "That was your first game, right? What'd you think of it?"  
  
"Same as usual," he says. "The best part was the company." He lifts his beer to his mouth.  
  
That's... definitely not what you expected him to say. "The company was alright," you agree after a moment. "For being completely unprecedented and surreal. And possibly insane."  
  
He chuckles. Then, "Not unprecedented," he says. "We used to be friends. Remember?"  
  
You consider. "We were different people back then."  
  
"No, we weren't people," he corrects you. "Not like we are now. Maybe it's time to give it another go."  
  
You raise an eyebrow. "You're saying you want to be friends?"  
  
"Yeah," he says. "That's what I'm saying."  
  
You look down at your beer. When you glance back up, Spike is watching you, head tilted to the side. He's got an eyebrow lifted in question.

"You think we could actually have a relationship without trying to kill each other?" you ask. You're not really opposed to the idea, but you're trying to be realistic.  
  
"Happened today," says Spike.  
  
"I'm not convinced you're really yourself today, Spike," you remind him.  
  
He gives a small smile and looks down. "Today," he says, "I've had more time to be myself than you’d think."  
  
The way he says it sounds like he knows something that he’s not telling you, but you don't know what it could be. "And you're planning to be like this tomorrow too?" you ask.  
  
He huffs a quiet laugh. "If I'd planned on a tomorrow," he says, "I wouldn't have worn this ridiculous shirt."  
  
You grin. "It really, really doesn't suit you."  
  
He pulls a face. "See if I ever take _you_ to another hockey game. Ponce." But he's smiling after he takes another gulp of his drink.  
  
You find yourself smiling too. "Yeah," you tell him finally. "I think we could be friends, Spike."  
  
He tilts his bottle toward you with a nod before finishing it off, then glances at his watch. "For another hour, anyway," he murmurs.  
  
*  
  
You wake up to the sun on your face. Like always, you flinch for a fraction of a second before you remember where you are. It’s better than an alarm clock.  
  
You lie in bed for five minutes with your eyes still closed. You know you dreamed something, but... it’s gone now.  
  
You get up, shower, dress like always. You wear all black.  
  
Today is Friday. You’ve got that big meeting at two o’clock. Then you’ll probably take off early.  
  
Sometimes you wonder how this became your life.  
  
You press the down button on your elevator. When the doors open, you step inside.  
  
This is how you start the day.  
  
*  
  
“So I was wondering if I could take off an hour early today,” Harmony asks you. “I mean, I’ve gotten all my work done already and there’s this really great sale at—”  
  
“Yeah, sure,” you tell her absently. You’re looking down at the manila folder in your hand. Etiquette notes from Wesley.  
  
”Thanks boss!” Harmony calls as you walk away.  
  
Spike is already in your office when you come in. “Leave,” you tell him simply as you walk past. He doesn’t, not that you actually expected him to. You sit down at your desk with your folder and your mug of blood and don’t look up as he comes over and sits in a chair across from you.  
  
“Thought we could spend some time together today,” he says, out of nowhere.  
  
You almost knock your mug over. For a second, you actually see it happen: dark, cooling liquid spreading across the papers on your desk. You stare up at him. “What?”  
  
“There’s a film noir festival this week. Double feature tonight.”  
  
He can't possibly be inviting you out. “And?”  
  
“And come with me.” He says this as though it’s perfectly natural for him to be asking you to the movies. Like it’s no big deal for the two of you to just hang out together.  
  
“Is that some kind of joke?” you ask.  
  
“No,” he says. And that’s all. No further explanation. Then he adds, “Don’t have other plans, do you?”  
  
You don't, actually. But. "Did I miss something here?" you ask him. "Did we suddenly become friends while I wasn't looking?"  
  
"Would it be good enough for you if I said yes?"  
  
“No,” you tell him. “What’s going on? Did you do something?” You stand up. “Are you trying to bribe me so I won’t kick your ass?” You make yourself look very intimidating.  
  
He just sighs. “What’s going on, Angel, is you have a crush on Humphrey Bogart and I’m offerin’ to be your enabler. That’s all.”  
  
“My... what? No I don’t.”  
  
“Oh, you _so_ do,” he says.  
  
“No, I – Look, he’s just a very... I mean, I _admire_ him, but it’s not the same as—”  
  
Spike raises an eyebrow at you.  
  
“I don’t have a crush,” you say.  
  
He shrugs. “Alright. You don’t.” But he’s not concealing his smirk very well.  
  
You sit back down. After a pause, you ask, “The Maltese Falcon?”  
  
“And The Big Sleep,” says Spike.  
  
You obviously don’t have a crush on Humphrey Bogart. That’s ridiculous. But. These movies are classics. Two of the best films ever made, really... and not just because of Bogie, but also the writing and... and how he just looks so _natural_ in those roles...  
  
“Pick you up at six thirty?” Spike asks.  
  
You hesitate. “I still don’t know why you’re asking me to the movies.”  
  
“Honestly, it’s ‘cause I’ve run out of ways to make the same bloody hockey game interesting.”  
  
You frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”  
  
“Means I’m spending way too much time with you. Think I’m actually starting to like you, Peaches. Odd, innit?” He grins and hops up out of the chair. “Six thirty, then?”  
  
“I—”  
  
“Good. Don’t let those Ri’ipki bastards keep you late today, eh?”  
  
The Ri’ipki bastards do end up keeping you late. Spike’s already waiting when you come out of the meeting that afternoon, your shoulders hunched and your hands in your pockets. You’re so tired. “I thought you said six thirty,” you tell him.  
  
“Figured we’d get a bite first,” he says. He glances at his watch and frowns. Then, “Wanna get something here, or go out?”  
  
“Let’s just eat here,” you say. You don’t really feel like going anywhere. You just want to rest.  
  
Spike tilts his head. “You alright?” he asks. As though he’s actually concerned.  
  
“Yeah. I’m fine.” You start toward your elevator and Spike follows you. “There’s blood in my fridge.”  
  
The two of you eat together in your penthouse, and by the time you’re done you’re feeling a bit more like going out. You put the damn Ri’ipkis out of your mind, and on the way to the theater strike up a conversation with Spike about Lauren Bacall, whom you both think was a knockout until she let herself get old.  
  
The festival is at one of those tiny old theaters with red carpet, flaking gold-painted fixtures, and doorways that are too short, although it was probably very glamorous sixty years ago. You feel right at home. There aren’t very many people, which is nice, and Spike buys soft drinks for you both and a large tub of popcorn, and the two of you automatically head for the back row without even discussing it. You expect to do the manly thing and sit with a seat in between you, but Spike sits down right next to you and immediately offers you some popcorn, which he’s already consumed about half of even though the movie hasn’t started yet. You try to be annoyed by this, but you’re not really, and you take some popcorn and the movie starts, and your arm is touching Spike’s arm for almost the whole length of _The Maltese Falcon_. And it’s comfortable.  
  
Bogart is, of course, amazing.  
  
There’s an intermission between the movies, and Spike offers to get more popcorn, but you decline.  
  
“Feeling any better?” he asks you.  
  
“I’m fine,” you reply. You gesture at the theater and add, “This place is pretty cool.”  
  
“Reminds me of back in the day,” says Spike. “Everything’s small.”  
  
“It’s your size,” you joke. You half expect him to bristle at the comment, but he just rolls his eyes like he expected you to take a cheap shot but he’s not actually offended.  
  
“What’s with you?” you have to ask. “Why are you being so... nice?”  
  
“Something wrong with being nice?” Spike asks.  
  
“No. It’s just weird,” you tell him. “I feel like we keep skipping the parts where we’re supposed to yell and punch each other.”  
  
“Yeah,” he agrees. “S’better this way, don’t you think?”  
  
You consider. Then, “I like not having to be angry,” you finally admit.  
  
The corner of his mouth twitches up. “Yeah, I like that too.”  
  
When _The Big Sleep_ ends, the two of you walk out of the theater together, and Spike asks if he can drive. You can tell by the look on his face that he didn’t expect you to say yes, and it makes you smile.  
  
It’s almost eleven. For some reason, Spike doesn’t drive straight back to Wolfram and Hart, but heads toward San Pedro instead. You almost ask him why, but he’s suddenly very quiet and the ride is nice and calm, and you don’t want to ruin the mood, so you don’t say anything. It’s not like you were in a hurry to get back, anyway.  
  
He stops the car on a bluff that overlooks the L.A. Harbor. “Come on,” he says as he opens the door.  
  
You watch Spike walk around to the front of the car and then sit back on the hood, looking out toward the ocean. You get out of the car as well and go stand beside him. “What are we doing here?”  
  
Spike looks down at his watch, then over at the rows of boat lights glowing brightly in the harbor. He doesn’t look at you. “Less than an hour before you start hating me again,” he says softly. “Thought we could just... sit here. Together.”  
  
You’re not quite sure what to make of that. You don’t know what he means, and it’s a strange thing to want to do, but on the other hand you can’t really see how it could hurt anything just to sit. So you sit on the hood of the car next to Spike, and you look out at the ocean and the boats. You can smell them, even this far away. After a long moment, you say, “I don’t hate you, Spike.”  
  
Another long moment passes before he looks over at you. “Wish we had more time,” he says quietly, and you don’t know what he means by that either.  
  
“We’re eternal,” you remind him. “We have as much time as there is.”  
  
"Yeah." His voice is soft, introspective. "But there's only today." And then, for some reason, he slides closer to you on the car, and he leans down, and he puts his head on your shoulder. And he just sits that way.  
  
"Spike," you say, not moving. "What are you...?"  
  
"Shh," he murmurs. "Just want to be close to you. Just for a few minutes. Before it starts over."  
  
Before what starts over? you almost ask. But now you're remembering a time when the two of you were always this close, and you look out at the ocean and you can hear it, and you can smell the boats, and you feel the comfortable weight of Spike leaning against you and breathing slowly in and out, and you think about the kind of closeness that you had back then. Neither one of you has that now, with anyone. And you find yourself not saying anything, but just sitting there with him, together.  
  
Tomorrow you'll probably write this off as some sort of fluke, a moment of mutual nostalgia inspired by Spike's random weird mood. Both of you will probably pretend it didn't happen. But for now, it's kind of nice.  
  
A few seconds before midnight, Spike touches your hand. "'Night, Angel," he says softly.  
  
As your name rolls off his lips, you feel yourself go suddenly weightless. It only lasts a moment.

  
  
*  
  
You wake up to the sun on your face. You flinch, then relax when you remember where you are.  
  
You lie in bed for five more minutes with your eyes closed, trying to hold onto that last vague memory of a dream. But it doesn't come back to you.  
  
You get up, take a shower, dress. All in black.  
  
Today is Friday. You’ve got that big meeting at two o’clock.  
  
You push the down button on your private elevator and touch your hair once more before the doors open up.  
  
This is how you start the day.  
  
*  
  
You take your mug of blood from Harmony's desk. She hands you a manila folder and you give her permission to go home early today. Spike is in your office when you come in. “Leave,” you tell him simply as you walk past. He doesn't, not that you actually expected him to.  
  
Spike invites you to a film noir festival. For some reason, you find yourself planning to go with him. He says he'll meet you back here at six thirty, and then he leaves you to your work. You go over the Ri'ipki etiquette notes from Wesley before moving on to contracts and case files and other things that you hate doing but have to be done.  
  
You eat lunch in Gunn’s office with Wesley, Gunn, and Lorne. Fred was too busy in her lab to take a break. You listen to them talk about all the good Wolfram and Hart is accomplishing. You listen to them not talk about the compromises.  
  
The meeting with the Ri'ipkis begins at two, and Fred shows up just in time to join the rest of you before you meet them in the lobby, walk into the soundproof conference room together. As you close the door behind you and move around the table to your seat, the five Ri'ipkis begin muttering something in unison. You glance over at Wesley, who looks back at you with an expression that says he doesn't know what they're doing either but just go with it. So you sit down politely and wait. It's probably some sort of greeting ritual.  
  
It doesn't hit all of you at once. First you see a growing look of horror on Lorne's face, followed quickly by similar looks from Wesley and Gunn. Fred gasps and covers her mouth before you've even realized what's happening. But then it comes to you, and at first you don't understand.  
  
It's like remembering a dream. You don't get the whole story at one time, but bits and pieces of it start to slowly stick together, forming a line that loops back on itself many times. It's the same day, over and over. It repeats; it runs into itself and you can't tell sometimes where one repetition ends and another begins, because it's all the same. You can't count how many mornings you've woken up today. It's impossible, incomprehensible. You can't wrap your mind around it. You don't believe it!  
  
And then you remember Spike, the only part of your day that ever changes. He knows. He's told you, fuck, how many times? He's tried to make it stop. You remember now finding him dancing crazily around a fire in the lobby, shouting commands to an ancient tribal time-god. Potions he's thrown at you or tricked you into drinking, witches he's brought in to wave their arms and wail at your office, innumerable meetings you've called with your friends so that Spike could explain what was happening over and over and over...  
  
Destroying your cars. Trashing entire offices in frustration. You remember beating him bloody at least twice in different places. Forcing him to talk to the shrinks on level eight. Hockey games. God, how many? That little theater, Humphrey Bogart, San Pedro, so many times. Dinner on your roof. He... he kissed you, and you kind of freaked out at the time, but right now, suddenly remembering it all, you want to be back there again. You want to do it over while you still understand what's happening, while you can still remember what you saw that first night, the night of the first day, before everything started over. He hasn't mentioned it. Maybe he doesn't even know.  
  
Four of the Ri'ipkis abruptly raise their arms, and you find you can't move your lower body at all; you can't stand up or try to escape. Fred's hands fall to her sides, and when you look around, you can tell that none of your friends can move anymore either. The remaining Ri'ipki sits down at the table and opens a folder. "Picking up where we left off..." he begins.  
  
And now you remember these meetings, but it’s not like several meetings; it’s like one long meeting that never ends, and it’s actually less like a meeting and more like terrorist negotiations. "Never," you interrupt. “You'll never get what you want, not as long as we're in charge here."  
  
"But Mr. Angel," he says smoothly, "you haven't even heard the rest of our argument."  
  
You, Wesley, Gunn, Lorne, and Fred sit immobilized for the next few hours while the Ri'ipki ambassador drones on and on, beginning exactly where he left off yesterday. You can't move your legs. You can't do anything. Your friends look at you with helpless expressions, but they're holding on to the same idea that you are. Somehow, Spike will save you. He's the only one who can.  
  
You wish you had a way to send him a message. You know he'll be waiting when you come out of the conference room, but by that time, all of this will be gone again and you'll be right back where you started, not even fully trusting him, a slave in your own life and not even knowing it.  
  
The meeting runs long. Spike’s already there when you come out, your shoulders hunched and your hands in your pockets. For some reason, you’re incredibly tired, like you've spent the last few hours throwing yourself against a wall. “I thought you said six thirty,” you say quietly.  
  
"Figured we'd get a bite first," he says. "Hey, you alright?" He looks like he actually cares.  
  
"I'm fine," you say. "Just tired. Bad meeting." At least, you're pretty sure it was bad. You weren't really paying attention. All you remember is a general feeling of nobody getting what they want. "You know, I think I'd just like to stay home tonight, Spike," you tell him. "Sorry, I just... I'm not up for the movies right now."  
  
"Oh." He looks confused. "You sure? You usually feel better after some blood. Why don't we..."  
  
"I just want to be alone," you say. "Go... bother someone else." You turn and start walking away before he can respond. You half expect him to follow you to your elevator, but he doesn't. Which is good.  
  
That night you go up to the roof to think. You bring _Don Quixote_ in the original Spanish, but you don’t read it. You look at the lights of L.A. You look at the moon. You try to remember what your dream was. It's been nagging at you.  
  
Around 11:30, you go for a walk. You come across two demons fighting in an alley; one of them is Spike. The fight goes on for much longer than you would have expected before he finally kills the other. Purple blood spews out of its bulbous neck and across his boots.  
  
Spike looks over at you. "Don't know what I did wrong today," he says softly.  
  
"What do you mean?" you ask.  
  
He comes forward a few steps and looks up into your eyes. "You're the reason I haven't gone mad yet, Angel," he tells you. He actually looks sincere. "Every day, I look forward to seeing you. That's all I have."  
  
You don't get it. "Spike, what are you talking about?"  
  
He looks away but continues quietly, "Keep thinking maybe you'll remember. Maybe... that some part of you would... remember not to hate me." He sighs and then looks at you again. His eyes are sad. "I miss you, Angel. And I'm so bloody lonely sometimes I think I'll explode. All I want is to be close to you, but today... didn't even get the chance to try, did I? Don't know what I did wrong..."  
  
You have no idea how to respond to that. "Spike, I..."  
  
"Guess I'll just try again tomorrow," he says, more to himself than to you. He suddenly looks at his watch. Then he takes your hand, and you're too confused to do anything but stare at your hand clutched tightly in his. "One day I'll get it right," he says, "and that can be the day we do over and over."  
  
You start to ask him again what he's talking about, but before you can, you feel yourself go suddenly weightless. It only lasts a moment.  
  
*


	2. Blood and Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a cure is discovered for vampire headaches.

*  
  
You wake up to the sun on your face. Like always, you flinch for a fraction of a second before you remember: necrotempered glass, the sleeping vampire's best friend. You'll never be used to it.  
  
You lie in bed for five minutes with your eyes still closed, trying to stay inside your dream. But it's too late; reality has already crept in and now you have no idea what you were dreaming about - just a vague notion that it was unpleasant.  
  
You get up, shower, dress for work. You wear all black. Black suits you.  
  
Today is Friday. You’ve got that big meeting at two o’clock. Maybe afterwards you'll take off early. You can do that; you're the boss.  
  
You take a moment to hate life. How is it possible that you're already so tired? Then you jab the down button on your private elevator and the doors open up and you step inside.  
  
This is how you start the day.  
  
*  
  
You and Spike have just beaten a Yoruna to death with one of its own tentacles. Actually, you're the one who did it; he just stood back and let you whale on the thing until long after it was dead and the thick tentacle was just a pulpy mass, falling apart a bit more with each blow.  
  
When, panting, you finally drop what's left of the tentacle and step back, Spike looks at the broken remains of the demon and asks casually, "Owed you money, did he?"  
  
"What? Oh. No." Your hands are bloody. "I just... wanted to make sure it was dead."  
  
"Mm. Good job, mate. Thorough."  
  
You just nod. A Shtreent, four vampires, and a Yoruna in one night. That _is_ pretty good. But you're still feeling a little violent, for no real reason that you can think of, and even though you're very tired and you've got a splitting headache, you're ready to kill something else. "Do you know of any others?" you ask Spike. "Maybe something bigger? This one didn't put up much of a fight."  
  
"Think it was asleep," says Spike. He's looking at you skeptically. "Y'know, maybe we ought to slow down a bit," he says.  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Cause you're going to hurt yourself if you go on like this, and I don't fancy hauling your fat arse around L.A. on my back."  
  
"Don't be stupid. I'm fine."  
  
Spike rolls his eyes. "You're so bloody tired you can barely stand up straight. This," he gestures toward the corpse, "is pure adrenaline, Peaches. You need to lie down for a while."  
  
Your head is throbbing, right behind your eyes. "I'm fine," you repeat. But maybe he's right. You don't know why you feel so tired, so... angry. You've been feeling this way since you left your afternoon meeting with the Ri'ipkis. Like you could just tear something's head off - which is why you took Spike up on his offer to go hunting.  
  
"Yeah, right," he mutters. And then he's reaching into one of his duster pockets and he pulls out a half-empty bottle of pills. "Here, take a couple of these," he says, and he tosses it toward you.  
  
You catch it. "What are they?" you ask.  
  
"Just take them. Trust me, you'll feel better."  
  
You twist off the cap and sniff at the pills in the bottle. Then, what the hell, you up-end them into your mouth and swallow. "There," you say. "Happy?"  
  
He's staring. "Christ, Angel, I didn't mean _all_ of them."  
  
You shrug. "Not like it's going to kill me, you know."  
  
He looks uncertain for a moment, then shrugs it off. "Well, give it fifteen minutes, and you'll be feeling better than you have since Thursday," he says. "Either that or you'll pass out. Maybe both."  
  
This is the worst headache you've had in years, so either way suits you just fine. But you don't tell him that. "So, any more demons?" you ask him again. "Vampires? Anything? I'm not picky."  
  
He frowns, then says, "Come with me."  
  
The Viper is parked not too far away, and you let Spike drive because your eyes hurt. By the time the car stops, though, you're feeling better. In fact, you feel like the top of your head is about to float off. "Spike," you say, "what kind of pills were in the bottle?"  
  
"The good kind," he says.  
  
"Not... happy pills, right? I'm not going to be happy, am I?" You're blinking kind of fast. You feel weird.  
  
He hesitates. "No, not happy," he says. "Mellow, more like. They starting to work?"  
  
You almost nod, but quickly stop yourself when your head nearly flops off. "Yes," you tell him.  
  
"Well, I guess that's good, then," he says. "You can still walk, right?"  
  
What a dumb question. "Of course I can still walk," you scoff, reaching for the door handle. You miss it a couple of times before you wrench the door open, start to step out of the car. You expect your foot to hit the ground before it actually does. You fall.  
  
Spike is squatting down next to your head a moment later, looking at you. The sky above his head is moving around. You reach for it, end up poking him under the chin. "Shouldn't have taken so many," he says. "Told you."  
  
"I feel better," you say. Your mouth doesn't move exactly when you think it will. "This is better than how I felt before. Are we at the beach?" You can hear waves.  
  
"Yeah," he says. He helps pull you up off the sand, then closes the car door and leans you against it before walking around to the back of the car. You're kind of dizzy.  
  
"So," you say, "why are we here at the beach?" You gesture around with your hand, and it goes very slow, so you do it a couple more times, watching your fingers.  
  
"Well," says Spike, now rummaging through the trunk. "Remember when I said you should lie down?"  
  
"No," you tell him. "Wait, yes. When?"  
  
"Bout twenty minutes ago, pet."  
  
You don't remember that. "Yes," you say.  
  
Spike pulls a blanket from the trunk and holds it up for you to see. "That's why we're here."  
  
"Oh. Okay." Your hands are bloody. "I need to wash my hands first," you say.  
  
"Er - right, fine," says Spike. "Can rinse them off in the ocean."  
  
The ocean. Right, that makes sense. You stumble a few steps toward the water, changing direction from one side to the other every time it moves. Finally, you just sit down on the sand where you are. "Spike," you say.  
  
"Right here, luv," he responds. And he is. Right there.  
  
You hold up your dirty hands to show him. "I can't find it."  
  
He sighs. "Come on, Angel. Up." He helps you to your feet again, and you sway a little bit. He leaves a hand on your arm. "Follow me."  
  
The two of you make slow progress down to the water. It's pretty. All black, like your outfit. Spike's, too. "Tonight," you tell him, "the ocean is dressed like a vampire."  
  
Spike just nods. He looks like he's trying not to smile.  
  
"What?" you ask. His expression makes you smile too. "What's funny?"  
  
"Nothing," Spike says with a little grin. "Wash your hands now, Peaches. We're here."  
  
You bend down and rinse your hands off in the cold water when it laps up the sand toward where you're standing. When you're finished, you draw an A in the wet sand with your finger. "Done," you say.  
  
You let Spike lead you several feet away from the water and then watch as he spreads the blanket on the ground. You're still dizzy. Lying down is sounding like a better plan than you'd thought at first. Everyone should lie down. So you do, on the blanket. Sort of.  
  
"I," you say, "am dizzy. Why did you have pills?"  
  
Spike sits down on the blanket next to you. "Cause lately, I've enjoyed being dizzy myself," he says. "And it's faster than beer."  
  
"Oh. That makes sense. Wow, you actually made sense, Spike."  
  
He nods. "Happens sometimes. You should pay better attention."  
  
"I will later," you say.  
  
He chuckles quietly. "Alright."  
  
"Are you laughing at me?" you ask.  
  
"No," he says. But he is, you can tell.  
  
The two of you stay this way for a while, you stretched out on the blanket and Spike sitting next to you, running his fingers through the sand. The shush of the ocean is making you sleepy. Your head feels light. You think of your meeting with the Ri'ipkis, and you sigh.  
  
"Something wrong?" Spike asks you.  
  
"Yeah... I don't remember why I was so upset about that damn meeting," you say. Your brow furrows. "Is that weird? That I don't remember what we talked about?"  
  
"Nah," says Spike. "It's normal. You'll remember later."  
  
"Oh. Good. I guess." The two of you sit for another long while. Then you say, "Sometimes I don't like the ocean."  
  
"Yeah? Why's that?" asks Spike.  
  
"Bad memories."  
  
"Of the ocean?" his voice is mildly surprised.  
  
"Yeah," you say. "But sometimes I like it. I like the way it... sounds."  
  
"It sounds nice," he agrees.  
  
"It sounds..." you search for the right word.  
  
"Peaceful?" suggests Spike.  
  
"That too."  
  
"What else?"  
  
You think for a while before it comes to you. "Lonely," you say.  
  
"You think the ocean sounds lonely?"  
  
"Listen to it, Spike."  
  
You and Spike listen for a few minutes to the waves coming in and rolling back out again, shush, shush, shush against the sand. No one else is on the beach, and the longer you listen, the more you start to feel like the beach is the whole world, and you are the only two people in it. And the two of you are very much alone.  
  
"Maybe," Spike finally says to you, "maybe everything sounds this way when you're lonely."  
  
You think about that. "Maybe," you say. You're sleepy. You listen to Spike sifting his fingers through the sand. "Yeah, you sound lonely too."  
  
"M'not saying anything."  
  
"Your fingers. Sound lonely."  
  
He huffs a small laugh. "They have each other, pet."  
  
You close your eyes. "Like us," you say.  
  
His fingers stop.  
  
"I'm sleepy," you murmur. "But... I feel better. Always carry those pills, Spike."  
  
Something touches your hand then, and you open your eyes. It's Spike's hand. "We have each other?" he asks softly.  
  
You blink up at him, try to think through the thick cloud in your head. "Yeah," you say after a moment. You take his hand and bring it up to your face, press your cheek into it. "Your hand is cold."  
  
He's just watching you. You try briefly to read his mind, but you don't know how.  
  
"Let's go to sleep," you say. "This morning I had a dream..." Your voice trails off. You look up at the moon.  
  
"A dream?" he asks.  
  
"I don't... remember it." You close your eyes again, let go of his hand. But he leaves it there on your cheek, and then you hear him shift around on the blanket, and a moment later something soft brushes across your lips. "Spike, are you... did you just kiss me?" you ask quietly, not opening your eyes.  
  
"If I say yes," he answers, "will you let me do it again?"  
  
You don't say anything for what seems like a long time. It was kinda... nice. A hundred years ago, it would have been normal. Very slowly, you nod.  
  
Spike kisses you again. Soft - like the air, or like water, or like... something you can't think of. Like your dream. It feels... you can't really think. Good. It feels good.  
  
There's a pause. "Is this alright?" he asks.  
  
You open your eyes. His face is very close to yours; his eyes are close to your eyes. You try to remember how long it's been since you looked at him this close. You smile. "It's nice."  
  
"Nice?"  
  
"I like your mouth." You reach up, touch his lips with your fingertips. "It's soft."  
  
You feel him smile. He kisses your fingers, and this whole thing suddenly strikes you as very funny. You start to laugh.  
  
"What is it?" he asks.  
  
You're still laughing. "This," you say. "Everything. It's funny, isn't it?"  
  
He tilts his head.  
  
"We're the only ones in the world," you say, "and I'm all mellow, and... and the ocean is dressed like a lonely vampire, and you're kissing me, and I can't remember a fucking thing. _That's_ funny." But as soon as you explain it, it doesn't seem very funny anymore. "Kiss me again," you tell him.  
  
Spike hesitates, but then he leans down and kisses your lips again. It doesn't feel like air anymore. Heavier. You put your fingers in his hair, hold him to you. Like earth. His tongue touches your tongue. You try to think, but you can't. It just feels...  
  
He pulls away again after a long moment. His lips are pink. He looks at you.  
  
"Don't stop," you tell him. "This is something I want to remember." It seems very important for some reason.  
  
He touches your hair. "You won't," he says.  
  
And the ocean goes on shushing on the beach, and you're half-listening to the sound of it, and you look at Spike so close to your eyes, and you try to remember something else but you can't, and you feel strange and sleepy. You touch his lips again with your fingers.  
  
"Spike, what's happening?" you ask.  
  
He sighs. You feel his breath. "We're being held hostage in time," he says. "And every night you forget." He kisses your fingers. "And I can't save you."  
  
"Oh." You turn your hand and look at your fingers where he kissed them.  
  
"And I'm very sorry," he says.  
  
"It's okay," you tell him. You don't know what he's talking about. "Don't worry about it. I just... wish I didn't forget."  
  
"Me too," he says. "But sometimes, I'm glad that you do."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Cause now I can tell you how I feel, and I don't have to worry what you'll think about that tomorrow."  
  
You look up at his eyes. "How do you feel?" you ask.  
  
He smiles sadly, then whispers to you, "Like this." And this time when he kisses you, your whole body seems to go weightless. It only lasts a moment.  
  
*  
  
You wake up to the sun on your face. Like always, you flinch for a fraction of a second before you remember where you are. Drapes, you think. I should get drapes. But you know already that you won't.  
  
You lie in bed for five minutes with your eyes still closed. You try to remember what you dreamed, but you can't. And after five minutes, you're already thinking about something else.  
  
You get up, shower, dress like always. You wear all black.  
  
Today is Friday. You’ve got that big meeting at two o’clock. Maybe you'll take off early afterwards.  
  
How is it that you're already tired? You must not have gotten enough sleep.  
  
You press the down button on your elevator. When the doors open, you step inside.  
  
This is how you start the day.  
  
*  
  
The meeting with the Ri'ipkis runs long. Spike’s already there when you come out, your shoulders hunched and your hands in your pockets. For some reason, you feel incredibly worn out, like you've spent the last few hours throwing yourself against a wall. You've got a pretty bad headache.  
  
"I thought you said six thirty," you say.  
  
He just shrugs.  
  
Fine. "Okay, what did you want to show me?" you ask him wearily. "Make it fast."  
  
"Come with me," he says. "Think you'll like this."  
  
You follow Spike to an elevator. Since it's after quitting time already, the whole building is almost empty and most of the lights are off. The two of you ride the elevator up to the floor just below your penthouse, where the employee workout facility is located. You know this because you saw it labeled on a map of the building once, but you’ve never actually gone there.  
  
The elevator opens into a vacant hallway. On one side there is a glass wall where you can see into a weight room, two racquetball courts, and a very large room with different kinds of exercise equipment. On the other side, there's a full basketball court, and you follow Spike in there. It's completely dark, but you don't bother with the lights. He leads you to the locker room, then out through the other side of the locker room into an area with an Olympic-sized swimming pool. Finally, you come to a small room with dim lighting, which is almost entirely filled with a gigantic hot tub, already heated and bubbly, just waiting to be relaxed in.  
  
"Here we are," says Spike quietly.  
  
You're staring at the bubbles, the heat in the room already prickling your cool skin. How could you have not known this was here? God, this is exactly what you need right now. The only thing missing is-  
  
"Had some blood sent up," Spike says, gesturing to a small cooler on the floor beside the hot tub. "Should be some champagne, too, if you want." He's taking off his duster, hanging it on a peg on the wall.  
  
"That's really... thoughtful," you say. Actually, it's fucking perfect. You can almost see yourself walking to the tub and just leaning over the edge, letting your body fall in and then just lying on the bottom and soaking for hours, all alone, no one to bother you... Spike’s taking off his boots.  
  
Oh.  
  
"Are you... I mean, I guess you're staying?"  
  
He pauses, looks up at you. "Thought I might, yeah. Unless that's a problem...?"  
  
"No, no. It's big enough." But. "Did you bring a swimsuit or anything? Because I didn't know we were going to..."  
  
"Nah." He's taking off his shirt. “Just try not to stare.” He glances your way with a smirk.  
  
You roll your eyes, then turn your back to Spike and start removing your clothes too. Normally, you'd feel weird about getting into a hot tub with Spike of all people, but you're already looking forward to sinking into the hot water and closing your eyes and pretending nothing else exists, so you figure you can put up with him for a little while at least. Anyway, the thing is huge, almost like a small raised swimming pool. It’ll be easy to pretend he’s not there.  
  
You almost leave your boxers on, but then you would have to take them off before you got dressed again anyway because they'd be wet, and it's not as though Spike's never seen you naked before. So you go ahead and slip them off, and when you turn to get into the hot tub, Spike is already in it, but he's got his head turned politely away so that he doesn't see you naked.  
  
You sigh as you slide into the hot water across from Spike. The water level doesn't quite reach as high as your nipples when you sit on the little bench, so you slouch down until you feel it go up to your neck. The warmth spreads slowly throughout your whole body and feels so good on your tired muscles. You don't know why your muscles are tired - you haven't actually exerted yourself at all today - but you feel as though you've been struggling for hours, pushing against some kind of barrier, and the heat from the water is so soothing...  
  
You close your eyes. You try to remember what you dreamed last night. It's been nagging at you.  
  
After a few minutes, your stomach suddenly growls. You can hear it, even muffled through the water, and you open your eyes. Spike looks over at you. "Hungry?" he asks.  
  
"I could eat."  
  
As Spike stands up, the water level goes down to his hips. His muscles are sharper than you remember because he's lost some weight over the last hundred or so years. Not that you're looking. When he leans over the edge of the hot tub to get some blood out of the cooler on the floor, the water level moves a little further down his body, revealing more pale skin lightly flushed from the heat. You avert your eyes.  
  
Then Spike turns toward you and tosses a plastic pack of cold blood your way. You catch it, sitting up straighter on the bench so your chest and shoulders are out of the water. Both of you hold your bags of blood under the water to heat them up before tearing off the corners and beginning to drink. It’s human. You stop and look over at Spike, watch as he finishes his off.  
  
“Why human?” you ask.  
  
He drops the leftover plastic over the edge of the tub onto the floor. “Cause your head hurts and I want you to feel better,” he says simply.  
  
His answer is startling. “That’s a first,” you reply.  
  
He shrugs. His expression is hard to read.  
  
After a moment of contemplation, you decide that’s it’s not really such a big deal because you know it came from the Wolfram and Hart supply anyway, which is all given willingly. Plus the little bit you already drank has made you feel considerably less tired even though it’s only been a few seconds since you drank it. You finally tip the bag back and finish it off.  
  
“Want some champagne? To wash it down, like.”  
  
“Maybe later.” You drop your plastic over the edge of the tub and stretch, and you can feel the blood you just drank creeping down through your body, all warm and satisfying. Your fingers and toes start to tingle a little. Even your cock perks up a bit, thickening lazily against your thigh. You close your eyes and just relax. Your head does feel better.  
  
Without really meaning to, you let your mind drift to the last time you and Spike sat together like this in a hot bath, that time in Venice in... 1896? You remember sitting across from him in a bathhouse, several other men in the same giant pool, Spike’s foot in your lap rubbing, toes groping underneath the water. Your cock lengthens further at the memory, how you couldn’t stand the teasing for very long, took him right there in the pool and some of the other men even stayed to watch. You remember speaking quietly in Spike’s ear – how you owned him, how you could let all the men have a turn if you wanted, how you could make him love it, every second, if you wanted to, because he was yours. Before you know it, you’ve worked through the whole memory in your head: Spike’s back to your chest, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, his head leaning back onto your shoulder, whispering fuck, fuck me, fuck me Angelus, while the water sloshed in the bath, lapping at your bodies as you gripped his cock firmly in your fist and stroked hard...  
  
You feel Spike drift toward you, and you force the memory out of your mind. You shouldn't have been thinking about it anyway; you haven't in years. You don’t open your eyes, and he stops just in front of you, just a couple of feet away from your erection, which has lifted itself off your thigh and is curving up from your lap, filled with human blood. You’re glad that the bubbles and jets in the water make everything blurry down there.  
  
“Know what this reminds me of?” Spike asks.  
  
You didn’t expect him to bring it up. "Venice," you say. "1896."  
  
“That bathhouse,” he says. “You remember.” He sounds pleased.  
  
You finally look at him. He’s smiling. “You wanted to get a tattoo like mine afterwards,” you say. “On your ass. I’m not likely to forget that for at least another hundred years.” You smirk at him, pretend you weren't actually just thinking about what came before.  
  
“You didn’t tell me how much it would hurt,” he says. In this way that's sort of... flirtatious? But maybe not. Probably not. Because that would be weird.  
  
You shrug. “I forgot. I think I was drunk when I got mine.”  
  
He chuckles. “You were always drunk.”  
  
“You’re one to talk.”  
  
“Well, it was either get pissed or listen to you go on and on about the good old days – _ale_ and _wenches_ and... bloody... _potatoes_ , and –”  
  
“Hey, I never went on about potatoes.”  
  
“Didn’t you? Maybe that was Dru.”  
  
You huff a small laugh. There’s a pause, and then, “You could have it finished now if you want,” you suggest. “They’ve got these electronic needle things. It probably doesn’t hurt nearly as bad as it used to.”  
  
He snorts. “Think I’d still want your stupid gryphon on my arse?”  
  
“Why wouldn’t you?”  
  
“Uh, because you don’t own me anymore, maybe?”  
  
You shrug. “You could get something else.”  
  
“Like what?”  
  
“Like... ‘Property of Angel.’”  
  
Spike rolls his eyes. “Ha, ha.” Then he says, “Still, I do need something back there. To cover up the mistake and all. Thought about it, but never came up with anything good.”  
  
You don’t actually remember the mistake, now that you’re thinking of it. It can’t be very big, or you'd remember. “How far did the guy get?” you ask. “Before you freaked out and killed him.”  
  
Spike raises an eyebrow suggestively at you. “Wanna see it?”  
  
Before you can think of an appropriate response to Spike’s... invitation, he’s already stood up and turned his back to you. A second later, he’s climbed up the first two steps out of the gigantic hot tub so that his ass is completely visible and you’re staring at the water rolling down his flawless skin.  
  
He looks over his shoulder at you. “See?” he says. “Need to have it fixed.”  
  
All you see is his perfect, pale ass, slightly pinkish from the heat and glistening with water. You clear your throat. “Have what fixed, Spike? There’s nothing there.”  
  
He cranes his neck, trying to look down at himself. “Course there is,” he says.  
  
“No, there really isn’t.” You find you can’t look away.  
  
“You sure? Give it a closer look. Gotta be something there – I felt it.”  
  
A moment later, your face is less than six inches from Spike’s ass, and you’re searching it all over for the start of a tattoo that obviously doesn’t exist. It takes longer than you’d think because you keep forgetting what you’re looking for. “Nothing,” you say again. But just when you start to back away, you see a tiny dot, not even half the size of a freckle. Is that... “Wait a sec,” you tell him. “I think I found it.” Unless it’s a tiny piece of black lint or something stuck to him... You brush a fingertip over it to make sure. Nope, that’s definitely permanent.  
  
“Wow,” you tell him. “You killed a guy over this?”  
  
“It fucking hurt,” he says, turning around.  
  
You’re suddenly face to face with Spike’s cock. You quickly turn your head away, but not before you notice that he’s about half hard, and you wonder if that has anything to do with you, or with Venice maybe, or if it’s just the blood you both drank. But he doesn’t seem to notice anything out of the ordinary when he comes slowly back down into the water with you.  
  
“Let's see yours,” he says, and for one startled moment you think he’s talking about your cock, because you’ve just seen his. But he means your tattoo.  
  
You turn your back to Spike, and he comes close to you, and you can feel his breath on the back of your neck. He reaches out and traces the lines of the A with his fingertip, and you’re remembering falling asleep that morning in Venice with Spike on top of you, doing exactly the same thing after the two of you spent almost the entire night fucking, first in the bathhouse, then in the tattoo parlor, and finally in your own bed.  
  
“Do you remember the rest of that night?” Spike suddenly asks. “Besides taking me to get inked.”  
  
His touch is warm, and your throat feels tight all of a sudden. “Yeah,” you say. “I remember.”  
  
His palm slides over the design on your back, then across your shoulder, down your arm slowly. “D’you ever think about it?” he asks, moving his mouth closer to your ear, his voice quieter now. “Ever think about... us?”  
  
You swallow. His hand is still touching you under the water, fingers curved around your arm, moving slowly down. His other hand touches your back, slides down under the water too. Very slow. "That was a lifetime ago," you say softly. "There isn't an 'us' anymore, Spike." But you don't move away from him.  
  
"Maybe... there could be," he murmurs in your ear. He presses close to you; you feel his chest suddenly against your back, his cock against your ass. It’s more firm now; he's as hard as you are. You blame the heat, the human blood. Under normal circumstances, the two of you wouldn’t... "I know you miss it," he whispers. His hands are inching around to your front; you feel his fingers spread possessively against your stomach.  
  
And you’re thinking yeah, maybe you do miss it a little, sometimes. But this is so... it doesn’t feel right to be doing this now, not right here, not with Spike. Yesterday you were at each other’s throats, and now it’s all... with the hot tub, and the human blood, and his ass, and the fucking champagne. And then it occurs to you that he must have planned this.  
  
As soon as you think of it, you’re immediately convinced that he _did_ plan it; it’s so contrived - of _course_ he did! You don’t know why, after everything, he would want to, but that’s the only explanation you can think of for... all of this. You take his wrists suddenly, trap his hands so they can’t move any lower. “Spike, what are you doing?” you ask him.  
  
You hear him swallow. He’s been made and he knows it, but, inexplicably, he still tries. “Don’t pretend you don’t want this, Angel,” he says, sliding against you under the water, his erection pressed to your skin so you can feel the hard length of it.  
  
You abruptly release his wrists, move away from his body, turn to face him. “Want what?” you ask. “A meaningless fuck – like when we were monsters? Is that what _you_ want?”  
  
He starts to say something.  
  
“We’re not those guys anymore, Spike,” you interrupt. “Hell, we don’t even _like_ each other anymore. We can’t just... why would you think I’d go along with this? Is this some kind of joke to you?”  
  
You don’t quite understand the look on Spike’s face when you’re finished. You thought he’d just be irritated, shrug it off, maybe stalk out of the room naked and leave you to brood. But he looks sad. “Don’t have time for meaningful,” he says softly. “If we did, I’d...” he stops and swallows again. “But this is the only way for us now. So yeah, let’s be who we were, Angel. Just for today.”  
  
What? What the hell is that supposed to mean? He’s moving toward you now and you back up, but you’re at the wall of the tub. How are you supposed to react to this? He’s never been this way with you before, coming on to you while looking so damn vulnerable and... naked. Fuck.  
  
“Spike-” you start warningly, but you don’t get any further. You put your hands up to his shoulders with the intention to push him away, but he’s already wrapping his fingers around you under the water, already squeezing, stroking your cock in the bubbling heat, and it feels so damn good you’re suddenly not pushing him away but digging your fingertips into his slippery warm skin, cursing, holding him there.  
  
“Call me William,” Spike whispers. “Like you used to...” His hand working you down there, all hot and wet, making your knees weak.  
  
Your fingertips are bruising his shoulders. This isn't what you want. “ _Fuck_ ,” you say.  
  
“Just don’t think,” he murmurs. “Just... just remember...”  
  
And then his mouth is kissing yours, soft lips pressed firmly against you, and you want to resist – you really do, you want to stop this, because it’s not... this isn’t how you’re supposed to _be_ anymore – but you are and now you can’t, and you’re kissing him back, and his hand is moving hard and tight around your cock, and you’re angry with him, with his hand and with his mouth, and with yourself for not stopping him, because you know you could but it’s just so fucking _good_ that you don’t want to, and you’re angry with yourself for not wanting to, and that makes you kiss him harder.  
  
And then his other hand comes up and he curves his fingers around the back of your neck, holding your head still so he can own your lips, and your hands leave his shoulders and go around his waist – at least, that’s what you meant to do, but you’re suddenly holding two palmsful of Spike’s ass under the water while you kiss him, kneading, and you’re pulling him forward against you, tight, hips to hips, and he moves his hand out of the way and you’re grinding your cock against his cock and it’s _good_ , but then you have to turn your head away from the kiss so you can think.  
  
“This isn’t – this isn’t–” your lips start to say against his neck, but you’re not even sure anymore how the sentence ends, so you repeat, “ _Fuck_.” How long has it been since you’ve been with someone? And then Spike’s biting at your shoulder leaving little red flower shapes in a row on your skin, and his cock is sliding beside yours, between your belly and his, tight and warm in the water, and your fingers are gripping his ass, spreading him open, and you're nudging with your fingers, rubbing over that little opening you can feel relaxing to your touch. This is happening so fast.  
  
“Want you, Angelus,” Spike is whispering urgently in your ear, sounding just like he used to. “Inside. Please." And your fingertip sinks inside him, just a little, and then more because he's slick inside, he's slick inside with not just water, which means of course that he _did_ plan this, the little fucker, he did it on purpose! He somehow knew that today you'd fuck him - after more than a hundred years, _today_ he knew, and that makes you even angrier. You press two fingers in – he _played_ you – and you feel his mouth drop open and the soft sound he makes against your neck, feel his fingernails scramble for purchase on your wet shoulders.  
  
“You want me to be Angelus?” you growl in his ear. “Really think that’s wise, _William_?” And you’re twisting your fingers inside him in a way that’s making him whimper and try to climb you, or maybe climb inside you. He presses his face to the side of your neck and mumbles something that you can’t quite make out, then bites down, into your muscle, not hard enough to break the skin but hard enough to hang on with his blunt teeth and to leave a bruise for later. You're moving your fingers roughly, angrily, and you grab one of his thighs and hitch it up around your waist for more room and he calls out sharply into your flesh between his teeth. His fingernails are leaving long track marks on your back. And fuck, you're so turned on right now, with your fingers in Spike's ass. But you're still mad.  
  
And your cock is still getting all kinds of hot tight friction against his as he moves against you, a jerky up-and-down motion that's more like he's only trying to fuck your fingers and your cock's just getting some action because it _happens_ to be pressed to his and he _happens_ to be thrusting near it. You finally yank your fingers away from him and you can feel the vibrations of the sound he makes through his teeth sunk in your neck before he lets go, leaving more marks. "Don't stop," he pants in your ear. "Go on, Angelus, give it to me-"  
  
"Don't fucking call me that," you snap, at the same time pushing him back from you. He stumbles a bit and you grab his shoulders, push him down to his knees in the water with a small splash, just the top half of his head remaining above the water level, his blue eyes looking up at you. "Open your mouth," you tell him. And he does, under the water, and you push forward, your hands in his hair. And you slide right in his mouth while he looks up at you like that.  
  
And you try not to, but you're thinking of William and Angelus, how they used to be like this with each other sometimes, how much you liked it. But you're not that guy anymore. You're not. Right?  
  
He chokes a little bit, gags, coughs before he gets used to the water and not breathing, but you hold his head there until he settles. Then he's sucking you like a champ, like he never went a century without doing this, like he's getting off on it. He's jerking his cock under the water - you can't see him doing it but you know; you can tell. And you tip your head back and you try to just enjoy this and not think about anything, but you can't not think and you _are_ enjoying it but only because it feels good, not because it feels right, because it doesn't. But it's too late now to stop - you missed your chance - so you just glare at the ceiling and take the waves of sensation as they pull through you towards his mouth. But you're not really giving yourself over to it, and it feels good, but you're not going to come this way, you can already tell. Fuck.  
  
You look down, and through the blurry hot water, you can make out the shape of your cock going in and out of Spike’s mouth. The water level cuts across the bridge of his nose and his eyes keep looking up at you and it bothers you that he keeps looking; it makes you feel guilty. After a few minutes of wet thrusting and feeling your cockhead rub against the back of his throat, you pull his lips off of you because you’re tired of his eyes watching your face, and you growl at him, “Stand up.”  
  
As soon as he’s back on his feet, you push him around and forward so that he has to grab the side of the hot tub to keep from falling again. He’s bent a little at the waist and you leave a hand on his slick back, keeping him that way as he grips the edge with both hands, white-knuckled. You kick one of his feet under the water and he spreads his legs apart, tries to look back at you over his shoulder, his breathing fast and shallow after being held under. But you don’t look at his face.  
  
Your other hand underwater is at his ass, fingers feeling along until you find the indention, and you push in your thumb all the way, press down. He makes a sound that's half a gasp and half a curse and his feet slide wider apart. You keep pressing down as you slide your thumb in and out of him a few times, until he starts almost jerking away from you because it's too much, and he's breathing and making this sound almost like a whine. And then you move your hand away and line your cock up against the same place, and you're pushing forward slowly into his ass, which is tight, and slick, and hot, and all the things that an ass should really be at a time like this, which is perfect, and you hate it.  
  
"Angel," he gasps when you're in, and your hand on his back clenches into a fist, and you reply quietly, "Don't. Say. Anything." So he bites his lip and you put your other hand on his waist and slide it down to his hip where you can get a pretty good grip on him, and then you pull out just as slowly as you pushed in, and every part of Spike is tense and tight, waiting for you to really start.  
  
When you do start, it's good. But that's all you can say for it. It feels good, just like it always felt good when you took Spike back when he was William and you were Angelus and you fucked like demons on a fairly regular basis and enjoyed hurting each other in the process and none of it actually meant very much except that you liked the way it felt. And that's just the way it is now, which is wrong, and it makes you mad all over again that you're doing this, because this isn't what you _do_ anymore; this isn't what you _are_ , and whatever Spike is, you're pretty sure that since he got a soul this isn't him either. You don't fuck someone you don't like, and if the past few months are anything to judge by, you and Spike do _not_ like each other.  
  
Then again, maybe you're the only one who'll feel bad about this later - because obviously this _is_ something that Spike does now because he's the one who wanted it in the first place. Plus you're remembering that he fucked Harmony as soon as he got his body back, and he doesn't like her either. Does he think of you the way he thinks of Harmony? Just a person he used to screw around with, and now that he's got an itch, you're in a convenient location to scratch it? Well, fuck him!  
  
You don't make it hurt intentionally. Not intentionally. But. If it does hurt a little, if that's what it means when he makes those sounds that sound like it hurts, well, you know from experience that he can take it, and you don't stop. This is who he wants you to be anyway. Right? And he's still getting off on it, just as much as you are.  
  
And when you finally come, you do it with a soft sound, a barely-there huff of breath, your fingertips dug deep into his bruised hips and your eyes shut tight, and he has already come, you felt it when it happened, and you saw the little white squiggles in the water briefly. He's not moving, hasn't for a while, and when you pull out of him, the water near his ass turns pink for just a second before the color dissipates. He's still gripping the edge of the tub hard, and he doesn't look at you as you step away from him. Which suits you just fine.  
  
It's late by now and you're only one floor below your penthouse, so when you climb out of the hot tub, you decide not to stay in the room with Spike just to put your clothes back on. Instead, you gather them in a neat stack and head for the door, all in silence, and you're already leaving while he's still standing there in the water. But just before you're completely gone, he calls your name softly, and it makes you stop, although you don't turn around.  
  
"This isn't what I wanted," he says, and you can somehow tell from the way he says it that he's got his eyes closed, that he's still gripping the edge of the hot tub hard to ground himself, to keep his voice from shaking. "If you ever remember today, Angel, remember that I didn't mean for it to be like that."  
  
You don't know what he's talking about or what you're supposed to say, so you just tell him, without turning, "Go home, Spike."  
  
Then you walk out of the room naked, leaving behind someone you won't be able to look at again for a very long time, and a faint, salty smell that could be sweat, or could be tears, or is maybe, probably, both.  
  
*  
  
You wake up to the sun on your face.  
  
You may or may not have dreamed something. It sort of feels like you did, but you don’t know what it was, and after five minutes you stop trying to remember. It wasn't something pleasant anyway.  
  
Today is Friday. You’ve got that big meeting at two o’clock. You're tired.  
  
You get ready for work, press the down button on your elevator, think about how much you hate everything.  
  
This is how you start the day.  
  
*  
  
You haven't seen Spike for a week. You know this while you're sitting in your meeting with the Ri'ipkis, just as surely as you know that when you walk out of here today you won't remember what happened between you, and you won't even mind that you haven't seen him today; you won't even really notice. You might even be glad, if you happen to think about it, which you probably won't.  
  
You have another hour to hate yourself before you forget it all again. An hour to be worried about Spike, about what he's going through, an hour to wonder if something awful has happened to him that's physically keeping him from coming back. An hour to wonder if you're in Hell again, or if maybe he is, or if you both are. An hour to hate the world so much you're almost ready to give up, almost ready to sign the contract, to end this whole mess. If you did, and then tomorrow was Saturday, and it was all over, would you even remember any of this? Would you even know why you did it?  
  
When this first started, you didn't sign it because it was wrong, because people would die, and you couldn't let that happen. Then you didn't sign it because of your friends, your friends sitting right here at this table; you couldn't let them down like that - they had faith in you. And then, when even they started to give up hope, you didn't sign it because you knew that Spike was still out there, knew the truth, was trying to put things right, was going to save you all. And now, now that Spike hasn't done anything for weeks to try to rescue you, now that he too has given up trying to put time right and has been focusing on you instead, he's still the reason you haven't given in, the reason you will never give in.  
  
Spike makes the day bearable for you. You know you can go on this way forever, as long as Spike will be waiting for you when you walk out of this conference room, even though he always says he won't show up until six thirty. As long as he's talking with you, spending time with you, you can sit through the next meeting and you can think about him and not about what they're trying to make you do, and you can bear it. Even though repeating the day is wearing on you, and going through the same motions over and over is starting to be torture, you still have something to look forward to, even if you'll only know it while you're sitting right here, unable to stand and fight like you're so desperate to do.  
  
But now... it's been a week.  
  
One week isn't so long when you think about it. Just seven days. From one weekend to the next, Friday to Friday, it's not really that long. But when the one thing you look forward to is gone and you don't know when - or if - it's coming back, seven days can seem like an eternity. Still, you haven't given up hope yet. You can wait another week, as long as he does come back, eventually.  
  
You keep blaming yourself, though you know it isn't your fault. If you hadn't been so... if you'd only known what was going on, if you'd known how he felt, how _you're_ starting to feel... it could have been so different the other day. He should have told you, he should have explained... but you know if he had, you wouldn't have believed him; you would have thought it was some sort of scam, some trick so he could use you to get off. You know already that there's nothing to be done about it. As long as this goes on, there's no way for the two of you to be together unless it's like that again, and that's the very last thing you want. You don't want to come in this conference room and remember hating Spike again the way you remember hating him that day. All you want to remember are the reasons you're not signing this paper.  
  
Besides, you already almost break down every time you remember what you saw that first day, the day before everything started over, the Original Friday. Spike must not remember, or else he would have said something. Right? Surely he would have mentioned - in one of those meetings you and your friends had every day when this first started happening - the reason he’s not affected while the rest of you are. Or maybe he just hasn't put it together yet.  
  
Maybe it's better if he doesn't remember.  
  
You think about that night on the beach again. Even though you were drugged at the time, and you never would have been that way with him if you hadn't been, that night is one you like thinking about. You hope he thinks about it too. You hope he thinks about when you told him that you have each other. Because that's how it is now. You're all Spike has, and all you have is him. You hope he remembers that.  
  
It's all their fault. You glare at the Ri'ipki ambassador and his four minions stationed around the room with their arms raised, murmuring something that's keeping you in your chair. Your arms are free so you can sign the paper lying on the table before you with a pen on top of it, and for a moment, you consider grabbing the pen and throwing it into the ambassador's eye - despite the fact that the last few times you did that, it froze in mid-arc and dropped harmlessly to the floor because of their stupid magic. You can't even write yourself a note because the moment you try, then pen flies out of your hand. You want to lash out, to hurt someone, but there's nothing you can do. Your fists clench in your lap, fingernails digging into the top of your thigh until you smell the sudden, sharp tang of your own blood. No one else seems to notice. The Ri'ipkis don't have noses anyway.  
  
It's late by the time you and your friends trudge out of the conference room. You feel so tired, like you've spent the last few hours throwing yourself against a wall. Must have been a bad meeting, although you don't really remember. You have a headache.  
  
As you get in your elevator to go home, you catch the slightest whiff of blood. It's yours. You look down at your hands, shrug out of your jacket and examine your arms. You don't see anything, but then again, you are wearing all black, and blood doesn't show up well on it. When you get up to your penthouse, you take off your shirt and look at your skin. No visible wounds. Weird. You unbutton and unzip your pants, push them down to your knees.  
  
There, on your thigh. Fingernail marks, already starting to heal at the edges. You touch them, fit your own fingernails against the tiny cuts. What the hell?  
  
That night you go up to the roof. You bring _Don Quixote_ in the original Spanish, but you don’t read it. You look out over your city. You look at the moon. You try to remember what your dream was.  
  
Around 11:30, you go for a walk. You come across a largish, snarling demon in an alley. You look at it for a while. It looks back at you in this way that's pretty offensive, and you figure you ought to kill it. But you're just so tired.  
  
If it's still there tomorrow, you'll come back and kill it then. Or maybe you'll just send Spike.  
  
*  
  
You wake up to the sun on your face. Like always. It makes you flinch.  
  
Did you dream something...? You can't remember.  
  
You take a shower, get dressed. Like always. All black.  
  
Today's Friday. You've got that meeting. Damn.  
  
You push the elevator button. Touch your hair one more time.  
  
This is how you start the day.  
  
*  
  
You eat lunch in Gunn’s office with Wesley, Gunn, and Lorne. Fred was too busy to take a break and eat with you, although she does show up just in time to join the rest of you before meeting the Ri'ipkis at two o'clock. You all walk into the soundproof conference room together.  
  
The meeting runs long. It doesn't go well; they want something you aren't prepared to give them. It's late by the time you and your friends trudge out of the conference room. You're so tired. Your head hurts.  
  
You get into your elevator already thinking of watching the sunset, eating, then relaxing on the roof with a book. Something classic. _Don Quixote_ , maybe - you haven't read that one for a while. But while you're thinking about this, you suddenly smell blood. You hadn't even noticed at first, but it's definitely blood, and it's definitely yours, and... your thigh kind of hurts. Huh, that's weird.  
  
When you get up to your penthouse, you unbutton and unzip your pants, push them down to your knees. You actually make a sound of surprise when you see the elaborate wound on your leg. You have no idea when it happened, or why, but as you reach down to touch it you notice that your fingernails also have a bit of dried blood under them, and you wonder for one crazy moment if you somehow did this to yourself, although you know that's impossible because you would remember if you had. The right pocket of your pants has a rip in it, big enough to fit your own hand through in order to get to your skin, but there's no way you did this...  
  
It really freaks you out.  
  
You clean your hands and the score marks on your thigh as well as you can before redressing and heading down to the garage. As you get in the Viper, you wonder where the hell Spike has been all day. Normally on Fridays he drops by the office to bug you at least once. Doesn't matter, though. L.A.'s not that big; you'll find him. He needs to see this.  
  
As it turns out, he's in the first place you look: his apartment. Easy enough. The hard part, though, is getting him to wake up. He's sprawled on the floor of his living room with two empty JD bottles and an unmarked pill bottle lying conspicuously near his hand. What the...? This can't be what it looks like. You shake him, call his name, but he doesn't respond. You slap his face a couple of times, start to shake him as violently as you can. His head snaps back and forth, but the only reaction you get is a small flutter of his eyelids and a soft grunt.  
  
Shit. This is just like him, isn't it? Do something insane and leave you to clean up the mess when he's done. Fucking idiot. What the hell was he thinking? You're furious with him for doing something so unbelievably stupid, but at the same time, you're finding yourself incredibly relieved, because at least there's no way he can die from this. You're still going to beat the hell out of him when he wakes up, though.  
  
You finally pick him up and take him to the bathroom, put his body in the bathtub. He's wearing his usual t-shirt and jeans, but his little white feet look so vulnerable without boots, and you clench your teeth, swallow against the knot in your throat. Bastard. You'll kill him for making you worry. Not that you're worried.  
  
You turn on the shower and aim the cold water at his head. This time, you get a little more of a reaction. He scrunches his face, turns away from the spray like it's some kind of nuisance. He tries to cover his face with his arm, mumbles something incoherent.  
  
"Spike!" you bark. "Get up! Now!" You kick the side of the bathtub near his ear, and he jerks his head away from the sharp noise, bonking it on the other side. He mumbles something again, then squints up at you with an irritated expression, looking like a half-drowned cat. "Spike!" you growl, "what the _fuck_ are you trying to do to yourself? Huh? Answer me!" You kick the tub again, and he winces.  
  
He mutters something, but the only part of it that you can understand is "Go 'way," before he turns his back to you and draws his knees up, curling into the fetal position as though he's just going to go to sleep right there in the bathtub with freezing water pelting down on his head.  
  
"Spike. _Spike!_ " you try again, but it's pointless; he's deliberately ignoring you now. You step into the tub, reach down and grab him under the arms, haul him upright under the shower. He's startled at first, tries to twist out of your grip, but his movements are sluggish and his feet keep sliding on the slippery bottom of the tub so that he can't stand on his own, and it's not too difficult to keep your hold on him.  
  
"Stop it... go 'way..." he's mumbling, pushing ineffectually at you. But his struggling ceases when he hears your face shift. He squints at your eyes, blinks several times. "Angelus?" he whispers. And then his body goes limp in your arms. He's passed out again.  
  
You do the only thing you can think to do. You bite him. His neck. Right there.  
  
It doesn't wake him up, but that's just as well. You suck hard at his neck, then turn and spit out a mouthful of drug-infused blood, watch it run down the drain. Then you suck again. Spit. Bright red streaks toward the other end of the tub, past his white feet dragging limply against the slick floor as you hold him up. Idiot. You're so mad at him you can hardly think. Suck. Spit. He tastes good, damn him. You're careful not to swallow.  
  
When you've taken enough, you raise your own palm to your mouth, slice into it with a fang. You press it to his lips and bleed very slowly, waiting. Finally, you feel a soft, involuntary suction begin against your hand, and you breathe a sigh of relief. You stand in the shower and let Spike drink from you until your muscles start to feel weak and it becomes difficult to hold his body up. "Bastard," you mutter. "Freaking moron."  
  
Spike's eyes eventually flutter open, slightly glazed-looking. His weight starts to shift back onto his own feet until he's mostly supporting himself but the two of you are still leaning into each other, propping each other up under the freezing spray. Your hand finally drops from his mouth, and he watches it fall limp to your side. You're lightheaded by this point and your breathing is shallow, but you’re still grounded enough to scowl at him, water dripping down his skin as he blinks at you slowly. "I'm so gonna kick your ass," you breathe.  
  
He just looks at you, an almost confused expression on his face, as though he doesn't understand what you're doing in his shower with him. Then he turns and looks at the water spraying down, and after a moment he reaches out slowly and turns it off. You realize you've still got your fingers tangled in his soaked black t-shirt, so you let go, and then you step carefully out of the tub, wobble just a little but manage to stay upright. You wish you had taken off your jacket before you did this. You struggle out of the soaked material now, drop it in a wet clump on the floor. Spike's leaning against the shower wall, not looking at you. You don't look at him either.  
  
You walk slowly out of the bathroom and into the living room. You sit on his couch in your wet clothes and lean back, close your eyes. You've never felt so tired before in your life. And this was so stupid of you; it's not like he was in any real danger - you could have just left him there on the floor. Must have been... what, instinct? Well, it doesn't matter now.  
  
You're shaking.  
  
Spike appears from the bathroom a moment later, comes slowly over to the couch and sits beside you. You don't look at him; you don't even open your eyes. But you can feel him staring at you. Then you feel him put his hand flat against your chest, against your wet shirt.  
  
When you open your eyes, which takes more effort than you expected, he's looking down at his hand on your chest with this bewildered expression, and he's feeling you as though he doesn't really believe you're there.  
  
"You don't..." His voice cracks, and he clears his throat before starting over. "You don't come here," he says.  
  
You don't say anything. God, you're so tired. And you're still pissed at him, shaking, furious. He's so stupid. So stupid. Fuck. How could he just...  
  
He looks around the room and spots the bottles on the floor, the two Jack Daniels bottles and the pill bottle. "I drink those," he says slowly. "And I swallow the... and then I'm... for the rest of the day." He looks at you again. "And you don't come here."  
  
You should have just left him there. You should have left him there on the floor, and let him wake up in a couple of days with a screaming hangover. Shit, he's so...  
  
"You don't..." he says again. "No, you... you watch the sunset. You feed. You go up to the roof with a... a sodding book in sodding Spanish that you don't even bloody bother to read..."  
  
...stupid. Inconsiderate. What if he had really done something... what if - what if he had dusted himself? Fuck.  
  
"You go for a walk," he says. "And you don't come here."  
  
"And what if I hadn't come?" you finally ask. Your voice lacks the anger you're feeling because you just don't have the energy. "What if someone else found you? Fuck, Spike, they'd think you were dead. What if... what if they had you embalmed before you woke up? Or cremated? Jesus..." You close your eyes. His hand is still on your chest and you're so mad at him, but you just can't... God, you were so scared, and it's... ridiculous. The whole thing. Fucking ridiculous. "Spike, don't you ever, _ever_ do something like that again," you tell him quietly. You try to sound menacing, but it just comes out tired. You can't even look at him. "Do you understand me? Because if I ever find out you were that stupid again, I'll find you, and I'll hurt you. Do you understand? I’ll hurt you, Spike. Tell me you understand what I’m saying."  
  
"Yeah," he says softly, but you don't think he really gets it. He couldn't.  
  
And then the hand on your chest is gone for a moment, and you hear Spike shifting around, and suddenly his body is curled up next to you on the couch, curled into your side, his head resting against your chest where his hand had been, and he's pulling your arm around himself like he's planning to stay this way for a while, even though you're both still soaked to the bone and freezing. And he's got this grip on your arm like he's afraid to let go, afraid you'll try to leave if he doesn't hold you there. And you would. Your shaking has mostly stopped by now, but you're still so mad, and you'd move away from him if you could, but you just don't have the... some freaking moron drank all your blood.  
  
"Spike, what are you... why are you doing this?" you ask him quietly, and your throat is still tight and you're not exactly sure what you're asking about, whether it's the way he's holding onto you or what he was trying to accomplish with the alcohol and pills, but you feel like you deserve some kind of answer from him.  
  
He doesn't say anything for a long time. You get the impression from his silence that he's trying to decide what to say, that there are several answers and he's trying to pick just one. Then, finally, he just says, "Missed you." Very softly, barely louder than a sigh.  
  
And his answer doesn't really make sense to you because you just saw him yesterday, but very little has actually made any sense today - least of all Spike - so you don't try to argue with him or demand any kind of real response, and he shifts again, pushes closer, holds on. And a very short while later, you smell tears.  
  
You force your eyes open, and you look down at Spike, and he's got his eyes closed but you see the two shiny tracks on his face. Before you can ask, though, he turns toward you a little more, and he buries his face against your wet shirt, and his body shakes just a bit but then stops quickly, and you don't say anything about it. But you do manage to find the energy to pull him a little closer, and that seems to be enough for now.  
  
You hold Spike this way for a long time. He falls asleep, but you've got him so it's alright. The two of you are going to have a serious conversation about all of this tomorrow, and first thing on Monday you’re going to make him talk to the counselors at Wolfram and Hart.  
  
Your hand hurts. It's stopped bleeding, but there's a large bruise forming around the wound. When was the last time someone fed from you? You'd almost forgotten what it felt like. Funny that you could forget something like that.  
  
You watch Spike sleep. You try for a while to remember what you dreamed last night. It feels like it's right there on the edge of your mind, just a fraction of an inch out of reach.  
  
It's nearing midnight when you remember why you came over here in the first place - to show Spike the message scratched into your leg. It'll be healed by tomorrow, but you figure you can just tell him what it said, rather than wake him up now so he can see it. You wonder again if it's possible that you did it to yourself, and then it occurs to you that maybe it was some kind of sign, a message from the Powers, and maybe it appeared on your leg without any kind of intervention at all.  
  
It would actually make sense, today of all days, for the Powers to tell you, "Find Spike."  
  
*


	3. Message in a Bottle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a dream is remembered.

*  
  
You're standing in an alley. No, you're kneeling. There's thick purple liquid everywhere, all over the ground, the brick buildings, your hands. Your shoes. There's a demon head lying on the ground off to your right, a demon body off to your left. And you're looking down at your hands, and you're thinking about all the lives these hands have taken, and about all the lives they've saved. You're looking at your hands, and you're thinking about all the things you've done, the choices you've made, the people you've loved and the ones you tried to love but couldn't, not enough to make a difference. You're thinking about the people you've failed.   
  
You're thinking about all of these things, and you feel so helpless, so small. So inadequate.   
  
Gradually, the alley starts to become lighter. You're looking at your hands and they're turning white; the purple is starting to fade from them. The alley is disappearing into light, and suddenly you know what's about to happen again.   
  
You wake up to the sun on your face.   
  
Like always, you flinch.   
  
This is how you start the day.   
  
*   
  
You take your mug of blood from Harmony's desk. She hands you a manila folder from Wesley - etiquette notes for the Ri'ipki meeting this afternoon. She asks for permission to go home early today, and you give it to her. When you go into your office, Spike is standing there. “Leave,” you tell him simply as you walk past.   
  
He opens his mouth to respond but hesitates. Then, for the first time in a very long time, maybe ever, he turns around and does exactly what you asked him to, without arguing.   
  
Well, that was a lot easier than you'd expected.   
  
You sit at your desk and spend the morning going over the notes from Wesley, along with contracts and case files and other things that you hate doing but have to be done. Around lunchtime, Gunn calls your office to ask if you're still joining Wesley, Lorne, and himself for lunch (Fred is too busy in her lab to take a break). You go to Gunn's office and eat with your friends, listen to them talk about all the good things going on at Wolfram and Hart. Everyone seems really tired, but that's normal considering all the hard work they're putting in. You're tired too, but you try not to let it show.   
  
The meeting at two o'clock doesn't go well. It's already late by the time you and your friends trudge out of the conference room. You have a pretty bad headache, and all you can think about is getting back up to your penthouse for a drink, followed by a nap maybe, or relaxing on the roof. You'll bring a book.   
  
Spike is there when the elevator doors open into your apartment. He's looking out the window in your living room, his back to you, but he turns around when you walk in.   
  
"What are you doing here?" you ask. You’re immediately annoyed. He probably just came to steal something and lost track of time, didn't know when you'd be back.   
  
He shrugs, then says quietly, "Wanted to see you, I guess." Suddenly, a concerned look appears on his face, and he takes a step toward you, then stops. "Are you hurt?" he asks.   
  
You blink. "Am I... what?"   
  
"You're bleeding."   
  
"No I'm..." As soon as you start to deny it, you smell your own blood. You hadn't even noticed before, must have been distracted. But it's definitely blood, and it's definitely yours, and... your thigh kind of hurts. Huh, that’s weird. You don’t remember injuring yourself.   
  
"What happened?" asks Spike.   
  
You don’t know, so you just shrug. "Paper cut. Why'd you want to see me?" You head toward your bedroom, removing your jacket as you walk. "Wait, let me guess - you came up with some brand new way to annoy me and wanted to try it out right away?" You hang up your jacket in your closet. Spike has followed you and is standing in your doorway watching. You turn to face him, cross your arms. "Good start, by the way. Breaking into my apartment. It’s already working."   
  
"Just wanted to talk," he says.   
  
"And I just wanted to be the only one here when I got home. Looks like no one’s getting what they want today." You push past him in the doorway and head toward the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. You might have some pain killers. Your head really hurts. “Whatever it is, it can wait until tomorrow.”   
  
He follows you. “No,” he says, “it can’t.”   
  
You open the cabinet and take the medicine down, twist off the cap. You pop a few of the pills, then cup your hand under the faucet and drink some water. When Spike makes no move to leave, you glare at him for a moment before shutting the door in his face.   
  
You hear him sigh on the other side of the door.   
  
You dry your hands on a towel and suddenly notice you've got some blood under your fingernails. Yours. You must have scratched yourself pretty hard, but you don’t remember. Maybe that’s why your thigh hurts. You unbutton and unzip your pants, push them down to your knees to look at your leg.   
  
Holy shit.   
  
"Angel," Spike tries again. "Angel, just... open the bloody door, alright?"   
  
When did this happen? You don’t remember. Why can’t you remember? There’s a tear in your pocket, big enough to fit your hand through. Did you... No, there’s no way you did this to yourself. That’s ridiculous. But who could have... This wound can’t be more than an hour old. You would have been sitting in your meeting when it happened. Why can’t you remember?   
  
“There are... things,” says Spike. “That need to be said.”   
  
You finally reach over and open the door. The elaborate pattern of red scratches is prominent on your thigh just beneath the hem of your boxers, and Spike glances down reflexively. You watch his reaction. Judging by the look on his face when he sees the message scrawled into your skin, he has no idea where it came from either. But that doesn’t make any sense. It’s got _his_ name in it.   
  
“Alright,” you say evenly. “Let’s start with you explaining to me what the hell is going on.”   
  
*   
  
There’s purple liquid everywhere. You’re kneeling in the dust in an alley looking at your hands, hating yourself. You’re blinking back tears, but you can’t smell them; you can’t smell anything. It must be a dream. It feels so real, though. Like a memory.   
  
Gradually, the purple on your hands starts fading into white. There’s light creeping into the alley. You look up, but you can’t see anything except the light, and suddenly, you know what’s about to happen. You’re so relieved.   
  
You wake up to the sun on your face.   
  
Like always, you flinch for a fraction of a second before you remember where you are.   
  
You lie in bed for five more minutes with your eyes closed. Did you dream something? You can’t remember now.   
  
You get up, shower, dress like always. All black. How is it that you’re already tired? Must not have gotten enough sleep.   
  
You touch your hair one more time before pushing the button for your elevator. Straighten your collar.   
  
This is how you start the day.   
  
*   
  
You're eating lunch with Gunn, Wesley, and Lorne in Gunn's office when Spike comes in. "Angel, need to talk to you," he says. "It's important."   
  
"What is it?" you ask.   
  
"Come out here." He walks out of the office, and your friends look at you with raised eyebrows.   
  
You put down your blood. "I'll be right back," you say, and you follow Spike out into the hallway. "What?" you ask him.   
  
He just leans toward you and sniffs.   
  
Startled, you push him away. "Spike, what are you doing?" He takes your right hand and sniffs your fingertips. "What the... let go of me!"   
  
"Haven't done it yet," he murmurs, letting go. "Then it does happen in the meeting."   
  
"What are you talking about? Did you come here to _smell_ me?" You glance down at your fingers. They look normal.   
  
"Just had to make sure," he says.   
  
You stare at him. "Make sure of what?"   
  
"Tell you later," he says. "After you do it." He takes your hand again and squeezes it. "I'll be waiting." And then he walks away. You watch him leave.   
  
"Everything alright?" Wesley asks when you come back into the office.   
  
"Everything's fine," you say. "Spike's lost his mind. What were you saying?"   
  
The meeting with the Ri'ipkis begins at two, and Fred shows up just in time to join the rest of you before you meet them in the lobby, walk into the soundproof conference room together. As you close the door behind you and move around the table to your seat, the five Ri'ipkis begin muttering something in unison. You glance over at Wesley, who looks back at you with an expression that says he doesn't know what they're doing either but just go with it. So you sit down politely and wait. It's probably some sort of greeting ritual.   
  
The sudden rush of memories is like a stampede in your brain. It hurts. Fred’s clutching the sides of her head like she’s afraid it’s going to explode, and Gunn and Wes both have a hand up to their foreheads, eyes closed tight. Only Lorne seems physically unaffected, but the look of horror on his face confirms that he’s experiencing the same thing the rest of you are.   
  
It takes a moment to get your bearings. The Ri’ipki ambassador sits down and waits patiently while the other four demons begin another quiet chant with their arms raised, keeping you in your seat. When you finally look up, the ambassador begins his speech again from the beginning. It’s the same thing you’ve heard a million times. The strategy of these demons seems to be repetition - maybe they think the more times you hear their demands, the more likely you are to give in. But they obviously don’t know who they’re dealing with here. They don’t know what you’ve been doing.   
  
Spike got your message.   
  
Your expression almost gives you away when you think about that. You quickly glare at the Ri’ipki ambassador as usual, but inside your chest, your heart feels suddenly light with hope. Spike got your message. He got it; it actually _worked_. This is exactly what you’ve been waiting for – _this_ is how it’s going to end. You can see it all playing out already: smuggling secret messages on your thigh to tell him what’s going on, working out a plan of action together, a surprise attack on the Ri’ipkis, your inevitable victory, and then –   
  
Saturday. You can already feel it waiting for you, your light at the end of the tunnel, a day full of promise, endless possibilities, a gift box big enough to hold absolutely anything. _Anything_ could happen on Saturday!   
  
But you’re getting ahead of yourself. It will still be days, possibly weeks before you and Spike can get everything sorted and planned.   
  
You and Spike.   
  
God, what are you going to say to him when this is over? How could you even _begin_ to... You don’t know whether you want to kiss him or punch him in the face for what he’s put you through. Your emotions have never gotten such a workout: fear, hope, anger, pleasure, frustration, peace, confusion, lust, shock. And in between smashing up your cars and giving up trying to rescue you, between seducing you into meaningless sex and disappearing for days on end, between overdosing on God knows what and draining your blood until you nearly pass out, somehow, inexplicably, he’s also managed to make you fall in l...   
  
To make you care for him.   
  
When all of this is over, what could you possibly say to Spike? Will you have words at all? _Are_ there words for this?   
  
When you see him, will you even remember how you feel?   
  
That’s the question weighing the most heavily on your mind. Here, right now, in this room, you care for Spike. You won’t when you walk out of that door. What if the spell is broken and you go back to being the you who doesn’t know, permanently? What if you then go on living your forever, never knowing how much you cared for Spike today, this very second? Would it be possible to not know, or would some part of you still remember, even if your mind didn’t? Maybe you would just feel sad and not know why. Maybe you would feel like you were missing something very important, but never figure out what it was. Or maybe your forgotten memories would surface at night, lurking in the shadows of your dreams like a very lonely vampire.   
  
Spike would never know.   
  
He needs to know. Spike needs to know now, today. You have to tell him how you feel before the spell is broken. You have to tell him that you think about him every second in here, that he’s the only thing that’s kept you sane, that he’s given you hope. You have to tell him how much he means to you, how worried you’ve been for him, how you wish you could take away what he’s going through, make it better somehow. You need to tell him that you’re so, so sorry about what happened, that you’re so grateful for him, for everything that he is. That you admire the way he tries, his persistence, his strength, that you can only hope you would be as strong as he’s been if your situations were reversed. That the memory of finding him on the floor of his apartment scares you to death, almost as much as...   
  
All of this isn’t going to fit on your thigh. You slide your hand inside your pocket under the table and start picking at the material, slowly breaking the threads to begin making a hole for your hand. You’ll have to decide on something short to tell him today; you can add more tomorrow.   
  
By the time you’re able to touch your fingernails to bare skin, you’ve already worked out what you’re going to say, so you set your jaw and start cutting. Anyone would think your grimace is directed at the Ri’ipki ambassador. He stares back at you, unflinching, explaining calmly why you should give in. Chump. You sort of hope you get to be the one to kill him.   
  
It's already late by the time you and your friends trudge out of the conference room. You've got a headache. Spike is standing there waiting, and you notice that the Ri'ipki ambassador glares at him disapprovingly as he walks by. Now there's a demon after your own heart.   
  
"What do you want, Spike?" you ask tiredly.   
  
He glances at the retreating backs of your friends, then at the open door of the conference room. "Come in here," he says, going into the now-empty room.   
  
You follow him inside, and he shuts the door behind you. "What's this about?" you ask. "You're not going to smell me again, are you?"   
  
Spike ignores the question. "You're bleeding," he says.   
  
His voice is so quiet that at first you don't think you heard him right, but then you realize that you can smell your own blood. You hadn't even noticed, must have been distracted. It's this damn headache. Why are you bleeding?   
  
"Does your leg hurt?" Spike asks. He’s standing very close to you. "Here?" He brushes his hand lightly over your right thigh, and you can feel a sting, like something cut you there. "Does it... maybe, feel as though you've been scratched?"   
  
It does. You narrow your eyes at him. "What did you do to me?" you demand, immediately angry.   
  
"Wasn't me," he says. "But I need to see it. Alright?"   
  
Great. What the hell has he gotten you into now? You clench your jaw and start unfastening your pants, glaring at him. If this is just another one of his stupid games, you're really going to put up that ward around the building so he can't come back, like you keep threatening to do. You shove your pants down to your knees and look at your leg.   
  
Holy shit.   
  
You read the message several times, trying to make sense of it. It's obviously for Spike, but there's no way of knowing what it actually means unless you know who wrote it. When you look up at Spike, he's got a hand over his mouth, and he's looking at you with this expression like he's seeing a ghost, or else he's seeing you for the very first time. Before you can ask him what's going on, though, your arms are suddenly full of him, and he's got his arms wrapped around your shoulders and his face pressed into your neck, and he’s murmuring to you that he didn’t know, that he would have done something sooner. What the hell?   
  
"Spike, what's--"   
  
"Don't worry," he whispers urgently into your ear, ignoring your startled question. "I'm coming for you, understand? Soon as I can. I'll put this right, Angel. Promise you."   
  
You _don't_ understand. "Spike, what are you--"   
  
And then he kisses you on the mouth, hard. And you're so shocked you don't even think to try and push him away; you just let it happen. And somewhere, distantly, you almost believe you can hear yourself thinking that kissing Spike is just what you want to do right now. And before you know it, you can feel your lips parting for his tongue.   
  
And a few seconds later, just before you can shatter the moment with one of the questions buzzing around in your head, Spike ends the kiss and lets go. Without pausing to look at you, he opens the door and walks swiftly out of the conference room, successfully avoiding any awkward aftermath, leaving you behind with your pants pushed down to your knees and the start of a hard-on that you can't really explain.   
  
And on your right leg, just below the hem of your boxers, the words "Spike - I remember" are already beginning to heal.   
  
*   
  
You tear the head off of the demon and its body drops to the alley floor, purple blood spewing out across your shoes. You look at the head for a while, then let it fall out of your hands and hit the ground with a dull thud. There's purple everywhere, all over you, the walls, the ground. Your hands. You take a few slow steps and then sink to your knees in the alley, look at the purple smeared on your palms. When you blink, tears fall to your cheeks and then roll down, but you don't really feel them. Can't smell them either. Can't smell anything. Must be a dream.   
  
It feels so real.   
  
You're looking at your hands, and they're getting lighter while you watch; the purple is starting to fade from them. Light is flooding the alley, and suddenly you know what's about to happen. You've never been more relieved.   
  
You wake up to the sun on your face.   
  
You flinch, then relax when you remember where you are. Honestly, who puts an east-facing window in a vampire's bedroom? Whoever designed this place ought to be shot.   
  
You're so tired. Did you dream something? You can't remember now.   
  
You get ready for work, then jab the down button on your private elevator.   
  
This is how you start the day.   
  
*   
  
You take your mug of blood from Harmony's desk. She hands you a manila folder from Wesley and asks for permission to leave early, which you give her. When you go into your office, there's a smallish throwing knife lying on your desk with a note. It isn't a gift; you know because you recognize it from your own collection. But the note says to keep it in your pocket today, that you will know what to do with it when the time comes. It looks like Spike's handwriting, but you could be wrong. You haven't seen his handwriting in a long time.   
  
You slip the knife into your pocket, figuring that it couldn't hurt, although you have no idea what it's for. All morning you feel the slight weight of it against your leg, and you think a couple of times that you might call Spike, ask him about it. But you don't know his phone number, and you're too embarrassed to ask Harmony for it, so you don't.   
  
You eat lunch in Gunn's office with Wesley, Gunn, and Lorne. Fred joins the four of you in the lobby at two o'clock to meet the Ri'ipkis, and you all go into the soundproof conference room together.   
  
The rush of memories is like a stampede in your brain. It almost feels like you should grab the sides of your head to keep it from bursting open.   
  
You’ve made a mistake.   
  
That’s the first thought you have when you’re able to think again. You messed up. You shouldn’t have told Spike that you remember. It just seemed so important at the time for him to know before anything happened... But now he’s going to do something reckless – and you already know that he’s going to do it today.   
  
Shit. Why does he have to be so impulsive? You haven’t even worked out a plan yet; you haven’t even told him about the magic, about the things these demons are capable of! Damn it, you should have done that first. Who cares what you _remember_ \- if Spike bursts in suddenly and tries to save you, he’s likely to get himself killed!   
  
Oh God, he's probably on his way right now. What are you going to do?   
  
You tell yourself that you must be underestimating Spike. If he's guessed that these demons are the ones making the day repeat, surely he understands how much power they have. Right? Surely he understands that you can’t just hack at them with a sword and hope they die.   
  
Then again, he only armed you with a throwing knife for this battle.   
  
You're all screwed.   
  
The Ri’ipki ambassador starts his speech. Wesley clears his throat softly, and you glance over at him. The ambassador doesn't seem to notice; at least, he doesn't stop talking. Wesley makes eye contact with you, then looks down at his lap significantly, then back at you again. He's got something. A weapon maybe? Did Spike leave something for each of you? You glance down at your own lap, then back up at Wesley with a nod, confirming that you also have something. The corner of his mouth twitches up, but he makes no other movement. Then Fred clears her throat. When you look at her, she also glances down at her lap, then at you with a tiny determined nod. She's got something too? Good girl.   
  
The three of you then look at Gunn, who signals in the same silent manner that he also has a weapon. By the look on his face, he can't wait to use it, whatever it is. Lorne, however, has nothing, as evidenced by his slight shrug and helpless look. Well, four out of five isn't bad. When you look back at Wesley, he raises his eyebrows. He wants to know when. You shake your head slightly. Not yet. You wonder how any of you are going to be very effective fighters when you can’t even move your legs.   
  
Spike, you think, you better know what you're doing. But you just can't shake the feeling that something very bad is going to happen here. You try to come up with a short-notice plan. Which Ri’ipki is the priority? Your first instinct would be to go for the ambassador because he seems to be the most powerful, but the other four demons are the ones keeping you in your seat. They’re working together... maybe if you take one out, you and your friends would have a better chance at fighting the others?   
  
You haven’t planned any further than that when the conference room door suddenly crashes inward, startling everyone in the room except you. Well, here we go, you think, and you catch a brief glimpse of Spike barreling in with a sword before you’re already throwing your knife at one of the four Ri’ipki minions. Just before it reaches him, the knife freezes in the air, and your heart sinks a little bit before you realize that he’s had to divert his attention in order to stop the knife, and he’s no longer helping the other minions hold you down. In an instant, you’re out of your seat and across the room, and you’ve broken his neck before anyone else has even realized that you’ve moved.   
  
One down. You catch your knife before it hits the floor and glance up to see what you should do next.   
  
A series of loud pops draws your immediate attention toward Wesley, who’s firing a handgun at one of the other minions. The Ri’ipki is frowning and stopping each bullet as it nears his chest, not noticing the small, round object rolling towards his feet. You see Fred crouching beside the table with her fingers in her ears barely half a second before the tiny bomb explodes, taking most of the demon’s left side with it. That’s two. You hear the frozen bullets tap softly on the carpet as they fall.   
  
Meanwhile, Gunn’s three throwing stars are floating harmlessly in front of the face of a third minion, who suddenly sends them flying back at Gunn. He manages to dodge two of them, but the third cuts his shoulder pretty badly. The Ri’ipki isn’t paying any attention to you, though, so while Gunn distracts him you throw your knife, easily embedding the blade in the demon’s neck from your position several feet away. When this third body falls to the ground, Gunn snatches the knife out of its neck with his uninjured arm and turns, throwing it directly toward the fourth minion, who is having trouble freezing Wesley’s second volley of bullets and is already bleeding in two places, looking panicked.   
  
And you’re thinking, wow. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all.   
  
And then you turn and look for Spike.   
  
*   
  
There's noise coming from an alley. Two demons fighting. One of them is Spike.   
  
You approach silently and lean against the wall, watch them for a while. You know the moment when Spike notices you watching because, even though he doesn’t acknowledge your presence, his technique suddenly becomes much more careless, and he starts taunting the demon more. You roll your eyes. He’s showing off, drawing out the fight because he knows it bothers you. You’ve always thought it a good idea to end a battle to the death as quickly as possible – drawing it out could be dangerous, even if you’re sure you can win, because you never know when you might lose your advantage. But Spike thinks it’s fun.   
  
You’re tempted to step in and end the fight yourself, but Spike’s obviously much better than the demon, even when he’s being sloppy, so you’re not really worried. You just watch. He’ll probably come up with some showy way of killing it, then smirk at you while you just shake your head, secretly impressed. Either one of you could have ripped the thing’s head off a dozen times by now, but that’s not inventive enough for Spike when he’s in a mood like this. You glance around the alley. What will he use? There’s a soggy cardboard box, a few broken crates... maybe he’ll do something creative with the metal trashcan lid?   
  
You guessed right. He backflips neatly, kicking the demon in the face, and comes up right beside the trashcan, grabbing the lid off of it in one fluid motion. But just before he makes his final move, he pauses for less than half a second to glance at you and make sure you’re still watching.   
  
That’s when Spike loses his advantage.   
  
It happens very fast. These things - they're not supposed to happen as fast as they do. There should be more production, more drama, more... reverence? Something, somehow, should be more. Not this being here one second and the next second being gone. Living for nearly a hundred and thirty years and then just not being there anymore... it's wrong. It's just... it can't happen like this. Not like _this_. This isn't how someone like Spike... It _can't_ be.   
  
And yet, you're watching his dust sink to the ground like a heavy snow, and you know that this _is_ how it happens; it must be, because it has. And you saw it happen - you watched the demon twist Spike's head away from his neck - but for a moment you're so shocked that you still somehow expect Spike to get up like he always does, to knit himself back together and to do something impressive with a trashcan lid. You're looking at his dust, and you're waiting for it to be him again.   
  
And then the demon puts its hoof down right in the dust and pivots to look at you, grinding what's left of Spike into the alley floor, smirking. And it still hasn't exactly sunk in yet what's happened, but you know distantly that you've never in your life hated anything more than you hate this demon right now, so you rip its head off. Just like that, its head is in your hands - you don't even remember moving - and there's purple blood everywhere, all over you, spilling out over the floor of the alley, over your shoes. And you find yourself thinking that it's not fair that this dead demon has blood, has a body, has a head, and all Spike has is...   
  
You drop the head and feel yourself sink to your knees in the alley. This isn't right. It's not... this can't be _right_... And a slight breeze starts to move the dust gently, and you hear yourself make a sound in your throat, but you can't stop the dust from moving - you try to catch it, try to hold it together with your hands, but it slips through your fingers... and when you look down so much of it is already gone that you can't even be sure that anything you're holding was actually part of Spike at all. So you finally just let go and watch it blow away.   
  
Then you look down at your hands. They're stained purple. And you find yourself thinking about all the lives these hands have taken, and about all the lives they've saved. You're looking at your hands, and you're thinking about all the things you've done, the choices you've made, the people you've loved and the ones you tried to love but couldn't, not enough to make a difference. You're thinking about the people you've failed. And you feel so hopeless.   
  
You blink, and a tear rolls down your cheek. You can't smell it, though. Can't smell anything. And that's when you realize that it must be a dream. You always realize right at the end. It's the same dream, the one you have every night - because every night is the same night. Every night is the night that you watched Spike die.   
  
You look at your hands and wait for the purple to fade. You wait for the alley to start getting light, for the sun on your face to wake you up from your nightmare.   
  
But this time you don't wake up to the sun on your face.   
  
You wake up to the ping of your elevator, heavy footsteps running through your penthouse, a familiar voice calling your name urgently.   
  
When you open your eyes, it's still dark outside. You sit up slowly in your bed. The door to your bedroom flings open and Spike rushes in, still calling your name. When he sees you sitting there, he stops dead in his tracks and stares at you with this completely shocked expression - like he wasn't expecting you to really be there, like you're a ghost, or like he can't tell if it's really you in the bed or not. And you look back at him in what is probably the same way.   
  
The two of you just look at each other for what seems like a very long time, although it's probably only a few seconds. And you know this isn't what happens, so for a moment you wonder if you're still dreaming maybe, or if you got hit in the head and you're seeing things. But no, he's real, and he's standing here alive, and you're so relieved you don't even know what to say.   
  
His eyes are shiny. He’s staring at you with this lost look and you just want to gather him up in your arms and hold him, feel the solidness of him, be reassured that he’s here, that he’s not really dust. And it’s all running through your head again, how much you care for him, all the things you want to say, and it occurs to you that today must be the real thing, Saturday, because you remember everything... except the end of yesterday’s meeting. You’re not exactly sure how it all went down, but it must have worked – Spike must have killed the Ri’ipki ambassador. That’s the only way you could be sitting here in bed looking at him and knowing how much he means to you.   
  
Then he comes forward slowly, reaching out his hand in the dark. When his fingertips brush across your shoulder, he breathes in sharply like he thought his fingers would pass through you and he’s surprised that they didn’t. “You’re really here,” he whispers. And when he blinks, you see a tear roll down his face and you have the sudden urge to kiss it away. But before you can move, he asks, “Am I dreaming?”   
  
“No,” you tell him quietly. And you hope very hard that you’re right.   
  
He trails his hand across your skin, touches your cheek, touches your hair. His fingers are cold. "Thought I'd never..." He pauses and swallows. Suddenly he takes his hand back, stands up a little straighter. "It's good to see you, Angel," he says. "Go back to sleep if you like. Just had to make sure you were..." His voice trails off.   
  
You blink. What? Did Spike really just tell you to go back to sleep? When it's finally Saturday, and you're together, and you remember everything? "You've got to be kidding me," you say. "You honestly think I could just go to sleep after all of... everything?"   
  
Spike doesn't look at you. He shrugs one shoulder. "Sorry to burst in here, the middle of the night and all," he says. "Had to... check something." He clears his throat. "I'll just be going now. We can talk later." As he turns to walk away, he passes the back of his hand quickly over his eyes.   
  
"Spike!" you say. He stops but doesn't turn around. "If you seriously walk out that door right now, I'm gonna kick your ass." You watch his back tense at your words. This definitely isn't what you had planned to say to him, but you're so confused you don't really know what to do. Why isn't he kissing you right now? Why aren’t the two of you celebrating?   
  
His voice sounds strained when he replies quietly, "Don't."   
  
"Don't what? Don't kick your ass?" Your fists are clenched in your sheets. He can't possibly be thinking of leaving. Right?   
  
"Don't do this," Spike says softly. "Don't hate me, Angel. Please. Not today. Not after..." He swallows.   
  
“What are you talking about?” you demand.   
  
"Just... pretend I'm someone else,” he says. “Pretend I'm Charlie, or Percy, or your green demon friend with the ambiguous sexuality. But don't hate me today, Angel. I don't think I could stand it."   
  
You’re shaking your head. “Spike, what–” you start again, but he’s already walking away, his arms crossed tightly in front of him, hugging his duster to his body. You get out of bed quickly and go after him. “Spike,” you say. “Wait.” You put a hand on his shoulder and turn him to face you, the moonlight coming through your window casting a bluish tint on his face. His eyelashes are wet. “Spike, I don’t hate you,” you say. “I...”   
  
But suddenly, standing here with him, every word you’ve ever learned has abandoned you, and you don’t know how to finish. Spike’s waiting for the rest of the sentence, looking at you, and it’s the moment you’ve been hoping for, and it’s actually kind of perfect with the bluish light and the rumpled bed nearby and your hand on his shoulder holding him there, his attention focused on you. But you can’t even think what you want to say. It’s all running together in your head, images you can’t put words with – you and Spike watching the boats in the L.A. Harbor, sitting in a dark theater together, wearing matching jerseys, kissing on the beach. Spike alone on the floor of his apartment, Spike curling into your side and fitting so perfectly, Spike showing off for you, Spike turning to dust. You want to wrap your arms around him and crush him to your chest and never let go, but you also want to put him away somewhere safe and never let anything touch him. How can you tell him these things? You want to say something about how strong he is, how you want to be like him, but you’re standing here looking at him and thinking about how fragile he can be, how beautiful and intricate, like the inside of a leaf, how you want to take care of him. Would he resent that? What do you say? Oh God, you don’t have time for it all, for any of it; you don’t have words...   
  
“Stay,” you finally manage. “Just stay here with me. Please.” And he looks sort of confused, like maybe he didn’t hear you right, so you whisper again, “Please.” And you lean down and kiss him softly on the mouth, because it’s the only thing you can think of to do.   
  
He’s startled at first. He makes a sound in his throat that sounds like a question, but you don’t stop to answer him; you just kiss him harder, hoping that maybe he can read the answer in your lips, and after a moment you think he must have been able to because he doesn’t ask again. The kiss lengthens, deepens, and one by one the images in your head start to disappear, or else they swirl into each other, combining into a singularity and clearing your mind of everything except Spike’s mouth, and his hands where they’re touching your back, where you can feel his cold fingers and his rings, a contrast to the warmth of his lips and tongue. And in the space that’s left in your mind, you try one more time to think of what you wanted to say, but it’s all gone – there’s no hope of getting it back while you’re so close to him. You only know from very far away that it was something about death and life and memory, and something about... love.   
  
It’s a thing that you're only just now realizing, although it feels like you've known it for a very long time. You haven’t wanted to give it a name because it didn’t feel right, not falling in love with a person but falling in love with the memory of a person, a person who has no idea that you even remember at all. It didn't seem like it could be real, but right now you can't think of a realer thing in the world than the feeling you're finally discovering while you kiss him. It makes you feel like a whole different man.   
  
Spike kisses with his entire body. It feels suddenly very new, and at the same time as familiar as opening your eyes or swallowing or making a fist. You’ve just never paid attention before. Your hand is curved around the back of his neck, holding him to you, your fingers sifting through his hair, and your other hand is touching him, feeling him all over to reassure yourself that he’s solid and not dust, that the universe has finally, finally given you a break. And you’re thinking about how lucky you are to be standing here just before dawn on a Saturday morning, kissing Spike and remembering everything and knowing that everything will be okay.   
  
Then Spike puts a hand on your chest. Very slowly, gently, he pushes you back, ending the kiss. He looks into your eyes, and from his expression you could swear he’s never seen you before in his life. “What’s wrong?” you ask him. You touch his cheek, wipe away a stray tear with your thumb. God, he’s beautiful.   
  
“I don’t understand,” he says. “Why—” He pauses. His lips are dark pink. He clears his throat and starts again. “You’re not usually this happy to see me, is all.”   
  
You lean down and kiss him again, once. "That's going to change from now on," you tell him.   
  
He's looking at your mouth. "Oh," he says. "Well, that's good, then."  
  
He's thinking about kissing you again. It makes you smile. "I missed you, Spike," you say.   
  
"Missed me?" he repeats. "When?"   
  
"Every day. Sitting in that damn meeting, when they made us remember everything for a little while, then forget again. The whole time, all I thought about was you."  
  
You're about to kiss him again when he suddenly takes a step back. "You mean... you remember?" He looks confused. "Today, right now? You remember right now?"   
  
"Yeah," you say. "I was so scared I wouldn't, but I remember everything." You start to kiss him again, but he turns his head and quickly pulls you into a tight hug instead. So you kiss his hair.  
  
"I'm so sorry, Angel," he murmurs. You feel his breath on your neck. "Don't think I could tell you how sorry I am."   
  
"I'm just glad it's over," you tell him.   
  
"Over...?" he asks softly.   
  
"You know. Friday," you say. "Aren't you glad it's over?"   
  
But you can tell by the way his body tenses in your arms that Spike is about to say something that you don't want to hear. And suddenly you know what it is, and you can't bear to hear it, not after everything. Not when you've been through so much. You just want to pull Spike into your bed with you and forget everything else, be with him and celebrate and pretend it's Saturday just a little while longer.   
  
It takes everything you have not to cover your ears or stop his mouth with yours.   
  
His arms tighten around you. You can see the sky beginning to turn light outside your window, and you already know even before Spike says it that this light is the same light that woke you up yesterday, and the day before, and the day before. You swallow. Don't say it, you think. Your eyes fall closed. Please don't say it.  
  
"Angel..." Spike finally whispers to you, "it isn't over yet."   
  
No. Of course it isn't over. Of course. You should have known it wouldn't be that simple. And when the sun starts coming up, you can feel it on your face, and it makes you flinch. You press your cheek against Spike's and don't open your eyes. Try not to think about your dream.  
  
Today is Friday.   
  
This is how you start the day.

*


	4. Lucky for you, I’m easy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is Tennyson and a choice to be made, and Angel fails to wear pink.

*  
  
You're standing in the early morning light of your bedroom in a pair of black pajama pants with your arms around Spike, and neither one of you is saying anything. Your throat feels too tight to speak. Your jaw is clenched so hard it's almost painful, and you think for a moment that you're actually going to cry. But you don't.  
  
At least you have Spike now, you tell yourself. At least you remember. That's something. You don't know how it's possible, but at least it's something. You hold his body tighter to yours, and his face fits against your neck, and you take a deep, steadying breath. And you don't cry.  
  
At least Spike is here. At least you've got each other.  
  
But what the hell are you going to do now?  
  
You feel so tired.  
  
“I don’t understand,” you say finally. Your voice isn’t loud, but it feels loud in the quiet of your room. “I don’t... understand why I remember.”  
  
“Doesn’t matter,” Spike murmurs against your shoulder. “You remember. That’s enough.”  
  
But it’s not, not really. You need to know. “Something must have been different,” you say. “Yesterday, in the meeting. What we did must have... somehow affected the spell, or...”  
  
“It doesn’t matter, Angel,” Spike says again.  
  
“But it does matter,” you tell him, and as soon as you say it, you feel a slight change in the way he’s carrying himself, as though he’s preparing for an argument, but you push ahead anyway because it's important. “I mean, this is a step in the right direction, isn’t it? The first step to figuring out how to—”  
  
“No,” Spike interrupts. He sounds upset, but he doesn’t pull away from you. “It wasn't a bloody step, Angel; it was a... a failure on my part, and I won’t let it happen again.”  
  
“A failure? What are you talking about?” you ask. When he doesn’t answer, you put your hands on his shoulders and step back gently, so you can see his face. He looks away. “Spike, what do you mean? What failure?”  
  
He swallows, then says softly, “Wasn’t thinking, you know?” He's not meeting your eyes. “Just, I knew I had to get you out of there, quick. Didn’t think about the magicks... I just wanted to save you.” He glances up at you, and his eyes look very shiny, but he’s not crying anymore either. “I’m so sorry, Angel,” he whispers. “I didn’t know... what they could do. I didn’t... think.”  
  
“It’s okay, Spike,” you tell him, not sure what he’s talking about. “I'm not stuck in the time loop anymore, and now we can figure out the rest together. You did save me.” You put a hand up to his cheek. “Thank you.”  
  
He pulls your hand away. “I didn’t save you,” he says firmly. “I let that fucking bastard...” He stops and swallows again. “I _couldn’t_ save you, Angel,” he says, voice tight. “This, remembering everything... this is just the bloody consolation prize.”  
  
You still don't understand, so you sigh and rub a hand over your eyes. “I’m so tired of having to ask what’s going on,” you say quietly. “I didn't think I'd have to do that anymore."  
  
Spike just looks at you, a confused expression on his face. Then he says, “You don’t remember, do you?”  
  
“I remember everything,” you say.  
  
He tilts his head slowly, like he’s just getting something. “But you don’t remember what happened yesterday. During the meeting.”  
  
You think about it. “I remember... we were winning,” you say. “And then I looked for you, and... and then I was dreaming, and I woke up here again. You were calling my name.” You frown. “How did it end? Did you kill the ambassador?”  
  
But as soon as you ask, you see a tiny flicker of something in Spike's eyes sort of shutting down, closing itself off from you. It’s a very small thing, but you notice, and it startles you. You'd never realized before how openly and honestly he always looked at you until now, when the honesty is being carefully hidden away. “Spike, what happened in the meeting?” you ask again, alarmed.  
  
He shakes his head. “It’s... nothing. Not important,” he says. He suddenly puts his arms around you again and pulls you close. “Probably best that you don’t remember,” he adds softly.  
  
And you know that he’s not going to tell you, and that worries you, that it was bad enough that he would think it’s better for you not to remember. And you immediately imagine all the worst scenarios, trying to think what could be so bad that he...  
  
But then, suddenly, you know. It’s not hard to put together, really, when you think about it. It’s... simple. Logical, even. When it happened to Spike, he didn’t remember either, right? He still doesn’t know, as far as you can tell. So it... makes sense. That this is how you escaped the loop. Maybe that's the only way to do it – in order to put your consciousness outside of the repeating midnight spell, sometime before midnight you have to...  
  
Oh, God. You feel like you might throw up.  
  
"Don't think about it," Spike whispers. He's rubbing your back lightly with one cool hand, up and down in slow, soothing strokes against your skin, his other hand resting at the small of your back. "Don't try to remember, Angel. Just... be here. With me."  
  
And that's all you want to do. You don't want to think about what it must have been like, crumbling into thousands of tiny dry particles, how it must have felt for everything you are to instantly burst apart. You don't want to think about Spike having to see that, your friends having to see it. How could you let it happen? How could you abandon them like that? How could you _die_?  
  
Did you go to hell?  
  
The thought scares you. You’re used to feeling used and manipulated, but this is the first time you've felt so vulnerable, knowing how easily those demons could destroy you, that they have the power to end you and bring you back as many times as they want. And you just want to be with Spike, wrap yourself up in him and take comfort, try not to think about everything else about this day and yesterday, and the day before, and the day before, and your dream, and everything. Now that you can remember these things, all you want to do is forget.  
  
And you feel so lost, knowing what's happening but not knowing how to fix it, and your body doesn't know whether to cry or to punch something or hurt itself or just go to sleep and try to pretend none of this is real, and you need Spike right now to keep you grounded, which is a thing he's somehow always been good at. Very softly, you ask him, "Kiss me?"  
  
And immediately he kisses your neck because his lips are already pressed against it, then your jaw, a tiny, light brush of his lips on your skin. When he kisses your mouth, you reach up to cup the back of his neck and slide your fingers through his hair, holding his lips to yours. His hair is thick and soft without the gel he normally uses. Spike didn't waste any time getting to you this morning, and something in your chest clenches hard at the thought that he came here not knowing if you'd even be alive or not. The old leather of his duster feels soft and cool against your body as he holds you, and you breathe in the scent of it, trying to drown out everything in your head that isn't Spike. You concentrate on him, carefully blocking out all thoughts of time loops and demons and dust.  
  
“Been waiting for this,” Spike eventually pulls back to whisper. “The day you remember. Had all these things planned to say to you, but... can’t think of a single bloody one now. Figures.”  
  
“You don’t have to say anything,” you tell him quietly. Because you already know. You feel the same way.  
  
He looks at your eyes. The soft sunlight coming through your window makes his hair look very bright, and he gives you a tiny smile, although he still looks sad. “Alright,” he says softly. “I won’t say anything.” And very slowly, still looking at you, Spike lets his duster slip down his arms and off, onto the floor.  
  
He puts a hand up to your cheek and kisses your lips once, then looks into your eyes again. He seems satisfied with something he sees there and pauses to pull his black t-shirt off over his head and drop it to the floor as well before kissing you again, laying his hands softly on your shoulders. You slide your arms around his waist, palms against his silky skin, and you’re kissing him back, but he takes the lead and you let him. And he’s good at it.  
  
“This okay?” he pulls back again to ask, and you don’t speak but lean down and start kissing his neck. He sighs, tilts his head back, closes his eyes. Your hands are on his skin, firm and cool beneath your palms, and you’re thinking, yes. Yes, this is okay. You think it very hard. _Yes_.  
  
And his hands are on you too, light against your back, sliding down. His fingertips edge just inside the waistband of your pajama pants, and you feel yourself hardening, breathing in the scent of him. Spike was turned late in the year, and he will always smell like autumn to you, faintly sweet and kind of earthy, but with a light smoky hint that could be leftover from his cigarettes or could just be his skin. Your fingers cup around him at the front of his jeans, and he looks down to watch your hand as you start to rub over him gently, up and down, coaxing his half-hard dick bigger beneath the denim. He bites his bottom lip.  
  
And you already know, even before he starts to walk you backward slowly towards the bed, before you find yourself lying back on top of the covers, Spike above you straddling your hips, his mouth on your neck, you know that what you’re about to do is going to be different from anything you’ve ever done together. You almost don’t know what to do, how to respond to his hands on you, sliding over your body in a way that has nothing to do with hate or pain or power. You’ve never been with him like this. You’ve had sex with Spike before, but you’ve never loved him this way.  
  
When his hand slips inside your pants to wrap around your stiffening cock, it’s a newer feeling than you imagined could ever come from such familiar fingers. His mouth is on your chest now, and you curl your fingers into his hair as he scrapes his teeth over one of your nipples, then soothes it quickly with his tongue. Your eyes fall closed, but you open them again right away when you see behind your eyelids the image of dust and purple blood scattered in an alley. Instead, you look down at the top of Spike’s head, and you try to concentrate on what he's doing to you, and you remind yourself that you're not going to cry.  
  
Spike presses a kiss to your stomach, just above your belly button. "Don't think, Angel," he murmurs into your skin, as though he can read your mind.  
  
Running a hand through his hair, you whisper, "Help me stop."  
  
And so he does. With a firm grip on your dick and soft, teasing kisses all over, Spike starts saving you in the way that you need him to right now, his soft lips against your belly moving downward, his hands and mouth so convincingly solid. He tucks his fingertips in the waistband of your pants and eases them down, pausing to let you lift your hips so he can pull the black material completely off. And then his hand grips you tightly again and his mouth opens for you, wet and yielding and... God, that _tongue_... and in between tiny shivers of pleasure, you think of how complex, how intricate these bodies are, how different from piles of dust. You can't be doing this if you're dead; you can't be making these soft sounds in your throat and feeling these things Spike is doing to you.  
  
“Spike,” you breathe, and your hips twitch up fractionally toward his mouth and then back down. “God, that feels so...” And he doesn’t respond but slowly takes you in deeper, his lips sealed around you, hands grasping your hips, head moving up and down in a steady, gentle bob. His mouth has never felt this deep before - or maybe you've just never noticed, and how can you have never noticed how deep Spike goes, how much of him there is inside? Your fingers card through his hair over and over as your cockhead rubs against the firm, wet walls of his throat. His tongue slides from one side to the other underneath you, and you breathe in sharply. If he keeps that up, you’re not going to last.  
  
Just when you’re about to tell him that, he breaks the easy suction with a soft pop and then pulls back, curls his fingers around your slippery cock, and starts pumping it slowly. You exhale a long, ragged breath and just watch. His gaze flicks from your thick erection up to your eyes and then back down, watching the slick head disappear repeatedly into his fist. When he looks back up at your face again, he swallows and says, “Want you, Angel.”  
  
And you’re watching him say this; you’re watching his eyes, the mix of emotions there that he's never been good at hiding from you, the hope, the hesitancy that isn’t quite strong enough to conquer his desire. And you’re thinking, God, you want him, too. Never more than now. But you don't want him in the way that you've wanted him in the past, the way that only meant you wanted to fuck him in the ass and make him really feel it, make him hurt and think of you for days afterward... And maybe that's what's so different about this time. You don’t want to hurt him – you don’t even feel like you deserve him, not really, not after everything. Would you have done for Spike what he’s done for you all these Fridays? If you felt like you had nothing left, would you have gone to him and let yourself love him the way he’s done with you, just for the sake of loving, not for getting anything back?  
  
But even though neither one of you can know what you would have done in his place, Spike wants you right now as though you had already done the same thing he did. He wants you as though, in this strange new relationship, the two of you were equals. And that’s what’s different.  
  
You sit up on the bed and put a hand to his cheek, bring his face close to yours so you can kiss those pink lips. “Want you,” you echo softly, and as you kiss him, you feel him reach down, unbuttoning his jeans. He breaks the kiss to stand up and push the jeans off his hips, and you reach across to the drawer in the nightstand, rummage for a moment before closing your fingers around a small tube you keep there while he finishes undressing. And then he’s on the bed with you again, and you’re rolling him over onto his back, kissing his mouth and his cheek and his neck and his chin and his mouth again, and he’s giving you this almost desperate look like he can’t get enough of you but he still doesn’t quite believe this is happening. And the look doubles when, rather than slicking your own cock with the lubricant, you squeeze some into your palm and then wrap your hand around his instead, spreading the cool gel up and down and over the tip.  
  
Spike’s lips part in a soft, breathy groan near your ear, and you nuzzle against his neck, murmur, “Alright?” and feel his slight nod. Equals, you think. You can see the word in your head, as clearly as if it had been carved into your skin. Two champions, two vampires with souls, two men with the memories of countless Fridays no one else knows, and at the end of the week, two identical piles of dust. Equals, in every way. This is what makes it different - not just what you're about to do with your bodies, but the knowledge you'll have while you do it, the feelings that have nothing to do with the way things used to be. It feels... right.  
  
Your slick hand continues to work up and down tightly around him until he’s panting softly, his hips coming off the bed in tiny thrusts. You slide your thumb across the firm pink head, squeezing lightly, and he suddenly goes completely still and grabs your wrist, stops you from moving. “Wait,” he breathes urgently, and you think for a second that he’s going to come, but a moment later he just sighs and lets go of you, gives you a relieved smile. God, he’s beautiful like this, spread out naked on your bed. How could you have never loved him before?  
  
You kiss Spike again, and after a long moment, he puts a hand on your shoulder, squeezes. “Lie back,” he says against your lips. And for the briefest of moments, a shiver of uncertainty passes through you, but when you pull away he’s looking at you with nothing but love, and you trust him – you trust Spike – and that makes it very easy to roll onto your back on top of your sheets and kiss him again when he rises over you, his lean body fitting between your thighs like he was meant to be there. “Just relax,” he says softly in your ear. Then, almost more to himself than to you, he adds, “Christ, I hope this lasts more than a minute.”  
  
That gets a small huff of a laugh from you, but then he's rubbing his fingertips over your asshole and you bite your bottom lip, swallow, try consciously to unclench everything. You need this. You need Spike. And it's not even a thing you have to convince yourself of; it's a thing that you know somewhere deep, a thing that you trust. You need him like blood, and he _is_ blood, and that's all there is. You need him to show you that you're both still here in the world, that you're together, that there's a reason to hope... and for a moment you're scared that this won't be enough to really make you believe, but you desperately want it to be.  
  
And a slim finger slides slowly inside you, and you let yourself exhale deeply, concentrate on Spike's solidness above you and in you. He's not looking at what he's doing with his hand; his face is pressed to the side of your neck, but he knows his way around, and what he's doing feels different, new, a little strange, but good. The finger pulls out with a slight burn and then goes in again, twisting, rubbing inside you. It makes your dick even harder, if that's possible, pressed against Spike's belly. "Do it," you whisper to him. "Now - please."  
  
Spike shifts a little, takes his finger out of you and kisses your collarbone again once, and then you can feel his cock, hard and slick, nudging against you. "Ready?" he murmurs, and your fingers tighten on his biceps as you tell him firmly, "Yes."  
  
Then you feel pressure, but nothing happens at first. So you brace your feet on the bed and you're pressing back, and that's when you feel the sudden stretch that takes away your next breath and causes Spike to make a soft, sharp sound against your chest. And then very slowly, Spike pushes all the way into you in one long, unbroken stroke until his hips are flush against your skin and you're both breathing hard, and it's such a tight fit that you think maybe you could have used a bit more preparation, but that's okay because even though it hurts, it still feels like it ought to; it feels _right_.  
  
"Bloody hell," Spike breathes, "Bloody _fucking_ hell, Angel..."  
  
"Good?" you pant, and he mumbles something incoherent into your chest, which you take as a yes. "Don't stop," you tell him, sliding your hands down to grip his ass. "Spike, fuck me."  
  
He inhales deeply and then just nods, as though remembering what's supposed to be happening here, and he shifts a little, bracing his elbows on the bed by your sides. And when he pulls out and pushes back in, you curse, and your fingernails dig into his skin. His abdomen rubs over your cock on the next thrust, and inside you feel like your body is suddenly waking up, like you’re starting to itch all over, and his dick moving forward reaches every little itch and scratches over it perfectly, but moving out just inflames the tiny itches again. You find yourself shifting your hips up to meet his with each stroke so that you don't have to wait, and you're watching his face but he's got his eyes shut like he's concentrating, and this - feeling him inside your body, hearing his breath so close to your ear - this is the moment that you finally, really let yourself believe that you're here. And when you close your eyes, the dust from your dream isn't there, and you see only Spike, naked in the morning light of your bedroom, and you're so relieved and you feel so alive that when you open your eyes again you can actually feel yourself smiling.  
  
Your hands slide up Spike's smooth back and then down again, just feeling him there, solid above you, and he arches into the touch like a cat. You do it again, let your fingernails lightly mark him, and his whole body shudders briefly but he doesn't miss a stroke, fucking you smooth and strong and measured, like there's nothing in the world more important than doing this right, and you're meeting him thrust for thrust like the two of you are just different parts of the same machine, slick and tight and fitting together as though you were built for exactly this purpose.  
  
"Fuck, Spike..." you whisper, and he lifts his head, looks up at you through yellow eyes. You think your eyes might be going from brown to yellow and back again, and he reaches for you, grabs the back of your head and pulls you up to his lips for a hard, wet kiss. And the whole time he's still moving in you, stretching, filling, scratching your itches, and rubbing over something that makes you gasp into his mouth, and his belly goes over your cock again and again, hard, smearing clear drops of precum between your skin and his. And it's never been this way before, not just with Spike but with anyone; you've never been touched in all these places at once, and it feels so good, and it doesn't feel like it's going to end, and it's almost too much, and is this the way it will always be, every time, with Spike, from now on?  
  
"Angel... fuck, so fucking tight, Christ..." he's saying into your lips, and he eventually turns his head away, squeezing his eyes shut tight and clenching his jaw to maintain control, but his hips never stop pumping, and you don't stop fucking him back and touching him all over with your hands, scratching his back and squeezing his ass. And you can't reach his lips anymore but you kiss his neck, and his breathing is harsh near your ear. And some more words slip out in gasps with his breath too, different words, words you think he might not even realize he's saying, but you take them in and some of them you give back, whisper haltingly in his ear between quiet curses, and the bed rocks with the weight of your bodies moving together.  
  
And it's building up; you can feel yourself already tightening throughout your body, the pressure in your balls and thighs and belly, the little jolts of pleasure shooting through your cock as Spike fucks your ass. If he stopped moving, if he paused right now, you could probably still hold on, control yourself and make this last longer. And, God, you want him to; you want him to stop for just a moment, allow you some time to pull yourself back in so this can go on forever, for weeks and weeks of Fridays. But he doesn't stop. He's pounding into you fast and hard and without mercy, and he's rubbing your cock over and over with his stomach and there's no way you can get away from it, so you tell him, your fingernails digging into his back, "Spike, shit, I'm... so fucking close, fuck..."  
  
And he mumbles something that sounds like, "Thank fucking Christ," and his thrusts become a little faster, wilder, less controlled. And that's what does it for you, pushes you over the edge. You come with a sharp gasp, your whole body clenching hard, cock spurting between your belly and Spike's as he continues to rub over it, smearing the wetness between you. And just a moment later, before you've even stopped coming, Spike's hips freeze on the instroke, his cock buried inside you, and you can feel his orgasm pulsing through him as his breath comes in harsh pants through his mouth, and it's such a feeling of completeness that you're almost awed by it.  
  
And then Spike's kissing you again, and while he kisses you he makes two or three more slow, squishy thrusts that send tiny aftershock shudders through you both. And you kiss him back, your whole body feeling a little sensitive and kind of sore, but so very satisfied. Your fingers and the soles of your feet are tingling, and all the things that you've been wanting to say are welling up again in your mind, but you find again that you can't say anything. And then he goes still between your thighs.  
  
Without moving from his spot on top of you and inside you, Spike kisses the corner of your mouth, then the edge of your jaw, then your neck, and breathes very softly into your ear, "Love you, Angel." And then he lays his head on your shoulder and settles his full weight against you as though he doesn't ever plan on getting up again.  
  
You kiss the top of his head. One of your hands finds his hand on the bed beside you and you entwine your fingers, give him a little squeeze. "I know," you murmur. And besides being sticky and sore and sated, you’re suddenly very sleepy, so you let his hand go and you wrap your arms around his back and you close your eyes, and you think about how lucky you are.  
  
“But,” he says quietly, “you don’t love me.”  
  
You open your eyes again, a little startled, not sure you heard him right. “What would make you think that?” you ask.  
  
“You didn’t say it.”  
  
“Maybe I was working up to it.”  
  
You feel a small almost-grin against your skin. “Poof.”  
  
That makes you smile. Softly, you tell him, “Love you too, Spike.”  
  
He sighs, shifts more comfortably in your arms, and closes his eyes. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I know.”  
  
And then your eyes fall closed again against the light coming through your window, and you’ve still got your arms around Spike and your body is still pleasantly tingly, and there’s a kind of warmth to your blood right now that you can’t really define... but in spite of all this, your mind is already starting to drift to things you don’t want to think about yet. And you just want to lie here under Spike; you want to feel the solid weight of him on your chest and not think of anything else for a while. You just want to pretend everything is okay.  
  
But you don’t have time for pretending today. People are already beginning to arrive in the building below you, early birds trying to get a jumpstart on their last working day of the week. Right now, on any normal Friday, you’d be in the shower, also getting ready for work. You should be doing that now. You need to talk to Wesley, set up a meeting, fill your friends in on what’s going on. You need to get up; you need to prepare for this afternoon.  
  
Five minutes.  
  
You can spare five minutes, right? You’ll allow yourself five more minutes to lie here with Spike, and then you’ll get up, face the day, be some kind of hero if you can figure out how.  
  
But for now, you tighten your arms around Spike’s body, and you just hold on.  
  
*  
  
An hour later, you’re still lying in bed holding Spike. He may have dozed off for a few minutes at first, but he’s been awake for a while now, although neither of you has said anything or moved. It feels like once you do, you can never get this moment with him back, and you don’t want it to end because you know that when it does you’ll have to go downstairs, and it will be Friday down there.  
  
You try to calculate how long it’s been since you had a day off, but all the repetitions sort of blur together in your mind, and you realize you have no way of really knowing how much time has passed. Spike could probably tell you, but you don’t want to ask him.  
  
You turn your head to look at the clock. You really should get up.  
  
In a quiet voice, Spike finally says, “Don’t go in today.”  
  
You turn your head again to look down at him. “I have to,” you say.  
  
“You wouldn’t miss anything,” he tells you. “Already know everything that happens, don't you?”  
  
You think about your meeting. You think about dying. When the Ri’ipkis killed you, did it happen quickly, or did they torture you first? Were you staked, beheaded, set on fire? Or do they have some kind of vampire-dusting power that you didn’t know about before? This is another thing you don’t want to ask Spike.  
  
“Today will be different,” you say. “We’ll make it different.”  
  
“Staying here would be different.”  
  
You kiss the top of his head, then murmur, “I have to take a shower.”  
  
Slowly, you begin extricating yourself from beneath him. Your skin sticks to his with dried semen, and you peel away from each other with twin grimaces.  
  
“Want company?” he asks, frowning down at a dry, flaking spot on his stomach.  
  
“Spike, you know if we showered together, I’d never get to work today.”  
  
He gives you a half-smile. “Part of my evil plan.”  
  
“I won’t take long.”  
  
You step into the shower alone and make the water as hot as you can stand it. You’re sore in places that you expected to be sore in, but you’re also sore in a few places you didn’t expect. It feels good, though. Being sore like this.  
  
And then you start to cry.  
  
You hadn’t realized how long you’d been holding it in until it all suddenly starts pouring out. It's almost startling how fast the tears come. And it makes you angry; it doesn’t make sense to be crying so soon after making love, after lying in bed for another hour just being together. It’s stupid; you should be happy. You’ve gotten your memories back, and you’ve got Spike waiting for you in the next room, and you should be so happy right now. But you put your hands up to your face, and you bow your head, and you cry silently while the hot water runs down your body.  
  
You never had a chance to mourn him properly. He was gone, and then a few minutes later everything started over, and you didn’t even know until the next afternoon what had happened. And at first you thought it was just a dream, but then you remembered again, and again, and then... you had other things, and your friends were all sitting there looking at you... and it just never... This is the first time you’ve had the chance.  
  
And even though you know he’s waiting for you in your bedroom, even though you know he’s perfectly alright, and even though you know that if he hadn’t died that night then you never would have had all those hockey games and movies and beaches together and you never would have fallen in love... even knowing all this, the thing that kills you is that you could have saved him, and you didn’t. And you can still see that alley so clearly, the largish, snarling demon putting its hoof in Spike’s dust, and purple blood all over your hands. And you will never be rid of that image, not for the rest of your life. Every time you look at him, every time he smiles at you, you’ll think about how you let him down. You didn’t save him and that’s part of you now, forever.  
  
So you cry. You let yourself do it now, because you know you won’t let yourself do it later. No one but you saw Spike die, and no one will see you mourning him, and when you step out of this shower today, it will be as though nothing had ever happened. And you'll live with that.  
  
When your body stops shaking, you turn your face up to the shower spray and let it rinse away your tears. You stand completely still under the steamy water until your muscles are all relaxed, and then, very slowly, you begin washing yourself.  
  
Spike is looking inside your closet when you finally come out. "I was just wondering," he says, "'Will he go with the black today..." he gestures toward all the dark clothes, "...or the black?'"  
  
You manage a half-smile. "Today I'm wearing pink. Bright pink. And yellow."  
  
"Do you even have that?"  
  
You regard your closet. "I'll wear blue."  
  
"I kept thinking... the whole time, I thought... 'The thing Angel would hate the most - wearing the same bloody suit every day.'"  
  
A small huff of a laugh. "I’m guessing that wouldn't bother you."  
  
"Would if I didn't have the choice," he says. Then he adds after a moment, "S'pose I'll go in with you. You'll want to call a meeting. I should probably be there."  
  
"That would be good. Thanks."  
  
He nods and turns toward the bathroom, then stops. "You're gonna ask me, aren't you?" he says, looking back. "What happened yesterday. You'll want me to tell everyone."  
  
Your eyes meet his. He doesn’t know you already know. "Yes," you tell him.  
  
He nods again, then silently heads toward the shower.  
  
*  
  
The ride down in the elevator is awkward at first. You're doing that thing again where you have things you want to say to Spike but you can't make yourself say them. But then he slips his hand into yours like it's the most natural thing in the world, and that makes you feel a little better.  
  
"I don't want to do this," you tell him quietly.  
  
He squeezes your hand. "I know, pet," he says.  
  
"I... don't think I could make myself go if you weren't with me." You wonder if he gets how difficult it is for you to say this out loud. You think he probably does. He’s known you for a long time.  
  
"It's surreal, at first,” he tells you. “Everyone wearing the same thing, saying the same thing, making the same little gestures with their hands. You find yourself waiting for someone to cough, or to blink, or to tap their sodding fingernails on a desktop. But you get used to it. I reckon I stopped noticing anything new after the first two months or so."  
  
"It must have been so frustrating," you say. "I thought I would go crazy, and I only had to know about it for a few hours every day."  
  
"Well," he says, "I found myself a reason to keep going, didn't I?" He gives your hand another little squeeze.  
  
You pull his hand up and kiss the back of it. "I think... that might be why I love you."  
  
He feigns surprise. "Not just my looks, then?"  
  
"God, I must have been so boring. Saying the same things over and over every day."  
  
"You've always been boring, luv. I've just built up a tolerance." He smiles. "Anyway, you were no worse than anyone else."  
  
"And that's why you love me. Because I'm no worse than anyone else."  
  
"No, Peaches. With you, it's definitely the looks." He grins at you as the elevator doors open.  
  
You both drop hands automatically before stepping out, and your own small grin quickly vanishes. You glance over at him apologetically, and he gives you a small nod of understanding as you head over to Harmony's desk to pick up your messages.  
  
"There you are!" Harmony says accusingly when she sees you. She puts down her nail file. "I've been trying to call you like, all morning."  
  
You frown. "No you haven't."  
  
"Well, Wesley told me to. He left you this." She hands you a manila folder with a post-it note on top - the Ri'ipki etiquette notes. You stare down at Wesley's three-letter signature on the post-it. Without even opening the folder, you know you could recite the notes word for word. Spike was right; it's surreal.  
  
And there's your morning blood sitting on the corner of Harmony's desk, right where it always is, cooling slowly in your #1 Boss mug. You take it silently and look at it.  
  
"So I was wondering," Harmony says. And you already know she's going to ask you if she can leave work early for some kind of sale, but before she can finish reciting her lines, Spike interrupts her.  
  
"Hey Harm, heard the good news about Saks today?" he asks. You glance up at him in surprise. He's just looking at her, as though this were a completely normal conversation.  
  
"Oh my God, I was _just_ going to mention that," she says. "Can you believe D&G intimates are 10% off? That like, _never_ happens!"  
  
"You know, you should really knock off work an hour early," he says. "Make sure you get there in time and all. Be a shame to miss it, a sale like that."  
  
"I was totally just about to ask if I could!"  
  
He turns to you with a smile. "Well, what d'you say, mate? You wouldn't deny our Harm the chance to waste loads of cash on frilly pink underthings, would you?"  
  
"I..." You're staring at Spike, the urge to laugh warring with sudden relief that you don’t have to finish acting out your part of the scene. "She can waste her money on whatever she wants," you say.  
  
He's grinning. "That's settled, then," he says, turning back toward her. “Off you go at three o’clock. But don’t spend it all on pink, yeah?” Then he leans forward confidentially and adds in a lowered voice, "Buy something black, too."  
  
And winks.  
  
When the two of you get to your office, you only spare a moment to set the notes and mug on your desk before pulling Spike into a kiss. "How do you do that?" you ask him, your hands still resting on his hips. “How do you make it seem like everything’s... okay? Like it’s just a normal day?”  
  
“Well,” he responds seriously, “the truth is... there’s a man here I’m trying to impress.”  
  
“Oh... I see.” You lean back against your desk and cross your arms. “Anyone I know?”  
  
“Nah, you wouldn't. He doesn’t get out much. No social life at all, the poor bastard.”  
  
You narrow your eyes at him. “Tall guy, brown hair? Quiet, mysterious, impeccably dressed, and kinda... classically handsome?”  
  
“Bit more like a troll in a suit, really. You know, extremely violent and with beady eyes, a huge forehead... but he is tall, yeah.”  
  
“Okay, I don’t think we’re talking about the same guy.”  
  
Spike takes a step toward you and nudges a knee between your thighs. “But,” he leans forward to murmur, “he’s a bloody fantastic shag.”  
  
That earns Spike another slow kiss before you pull away and look down at his mouth. "You know," you say quietly, "Ever since I started working here, I've wanted to fuck someone over this desk."  
  
Spike drops a hand to your lap. "Subtle," he says.  
  
You cover his hand with yours and draw it away slowly. "Too bad we don't have time."  
  
"Cocktease."  
  
"We need to talk to Wesley. And Fred and Gunn and Lorne."  
  
Spike concedes with a sigh. He takes a step back from you, dropping your hand. "Go on, then. Ring them. Let's get this over with."  
  
"You don't sound very optimistic."  
  
"Just thinking about how much good these meetings have done in the past."  
  
"It's different now."  
  
He doesn't look at you. "Course it is," he says.  
  
"Because I remember too."  
  
"Right."  
  
"So the meeting will be... different."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Spike?" You reach for his hand again. "Before we call everyone... there's something we need to talk about."  
  
*  
  
It's strange, telling someone that he's died. You've done it before, several times; you've even had to explain it to Spike before. But that was over a century ago, back when you thought things like that were funny.  
  
You don't tell him which demon it was. He doesn't ask, either. You don't tell him you could have stopped it. You don't tell him that his head was twisted free from his body with a wet popping sound, or that the demon stepped in his dust. He doesn't need to know that. These are the things you do tell him: an alley, a monster, a fight to the death. That's all. And that it happened on the Original Friday, and you know because... you saw it.  
  
You want to tell him other things too, like how beautiful he looked while he was fighting, and that it was a noble death, a champion's death, even though there was nothing all that spectacular about it. You want to tell him that it wasn't his fault. But what good would it do? And anyway you can't say any of these things to him yet. It’s too soon. It still feels like it happened last night.  
  
The two of you are sitting on the couch in your office holding hands, and it seems like you ought to be talking about something else. Your last hockey game, or what you had for breakfast yesterday, or going away together for the weekend. Something.  
  
His hand gets tighter in yours. Otherwise, he doesn't really react. He's not looking at you.  
  
When you've finished talking, there is a long silence. You watch Spike thinking, wait for him to say something. You can tell he’s coming to the same conclusion you did earlier, that death is a way out of the loop. And then he finally asks, in a very calm voice, if you've worked out yet what happened in yesterday's meeting. And you tell him that you have.  
  
There's another long silence. Your hand hurts. You're squeezing each other very hard.  
  
"Maybe this is hell," Spike says, not looking up.  
  
"It would make sense," you agree. "But I don't think it is."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"Because we still have each other."  
  
He laughs, but it doesn't sound right. "Not too long ago, I would have thought hell was being stuck somewhere with you."  
  
"It seems like a long time ago to me."  
  
"Yeah. I didn't really mean that."  
  
Another pause.  
  
“So, how did I...” you start. But then he looks up at you, and you don’t finish. “It’s not important,” you finally tell him. You don’t really want to know anyway. Probably.  
  
"We’ve killed demons today," Spike says. "Some of them, we killed every day for weeks. Surely they don’t remember everything?”  
  
That hadn’t occurred to you. “I’m not sure how it works. Maybe it only works if you have a soul. Maybe it only works if you’re a _vampire_ with a soul.”  
  
“Lucky for us.”  
  
“That might not be it. We’ll have to ask Wes.” Spike just nods. He’s still squeezing your hand very tightly, and you squeeze back just as hard. The pressure is reassuring, for both of you. “Spike, are you... I know this is hard to process,” you tell him. “Will you be alright? We can take some time, if you want. You know, before meeting with everyone.” You’ve only got until two o’clock before your meeting with the Ri’ipkis begins, though. Which gives you just over four hours to come up with a plan.  
  
Very slowly, Spike relaxes his grip on your hand and lets go. His voice sounds carefully controlled as he finally responds, “I’m always alright, luv. Let's do this now.”  
  
*  
  
"We're running out of time, Wes." You're pacing back and forth through the conference room, your friends and Spike all sitting at the table amid piles of old books and the remains of lunch. The second hand on your watch seems to be ticking louder than usual.  
  
"Angel, we're doing the best we can under the circumstances," he assures you, voice edgy. To Spike, he says, "And you're sure you've tried the _Bendhishilli_?"  
  
"That's the black stuff that smells like a fyarl's arse?"  
  
"Er-"  
  
"Yes, he's tried that. I remember," you cut in. And to Spike, "I still don't know if I forgive you for that one."  
  
Fred makes a second check mark beside _Bendhishilli_ on her list. "That's all of them," she says. "There aren't any more relevant counterspells in this dimension."  
  
"Don't tell me that," you say. "There's got to be something."  
  
"There are ten thousand somethings," Spike points out. "Trouble is, they don't work."  
  
"Did you seriously dance naked around a bonfire in the lobby?" Gunn asks.  
  
"A _magic_ bonfire, yeah."  
  
"Man, I am so glad I don't remember that."  
  
"Speak for yourself," mutters Lorne.  
  
“Gunn, a little more translating and a little less picturing Spike naked, please?” you say. He nods and looks back down at the contract in front of him. It took a while, but you’ve managed to duplicate the one the Ri’ipkis have been trying to get you to sign – thank you, photographic memory – and a little of it is actually in English, but honestly, you don’t understand what it means. You're hoping that if Gunn can decipher it - both the language and the demonic legalese - there'll be some kind of clue hidden there that will help you gain the upper hand.  
  
"What I don't understand," says Wesley, "is how a species like the Ri'ipkis managed to get hold of such powerful magicks. I knew they possessed low-level telepathic capabilities, but nothing nearly as advanced as what you've described, Angel. To manipulate the very fabric of time would take... well, it would take much stronger magic than anything we've ever encountered before."  
  
Fred nods. “Just storing up the amount of energy needed to fold a single day in on itself could take hundreds of years. And even then, you’d need a giganimous place to keep all the energy without letting it escape, not to mention a humongaloid transmitter, and... just using it once would probably explode the entire West Coast. Angel, the technology for time manipulation hasn’t even been _invented_ yet.”  
  
“So what you’re saying is...”  
  
“If it were even possible, which it isn’t, then it couldn’t be the Ri’ipkis, which it is,” sighs Wesley. “I’m sorry, Angel, but... there’s simply no way we can have this all figured out by—” he glances at his watch. “Good Lord, is it already half past one?”  
  
“Shit.” You sit down at the table beside Spike. “Half an hour. I can’t even concentrate.”  
  
Spike reaches over and squeezes your thigh under the table.  
  
“Not helping,” you murmur.  
  
“Cancel the meeting,” he murmurs back.  
  
“Spike, you can’t be seri... oh. The Ri’ipki meeting. I should cancel the meeting with the Ri’ipkis!” You stand up again.  
  
“Can you do that?” asks Fred. “I mean, will they let you do that? Won’t they just... come and kill us anyway?”  
  
“They’re not going to kill us,” you say. “They need us alive, or else they would have killed us that first day and not bothered with the... giganimous... humonga... zoid... do we have to use pretend words?”  
  
“Angel, the meeting...?” Spike prompts.  
  
“Right, I’ll cancel it now,” you say. Then, to Fred, “We’ve cancelled before. They never seem to mind.”  
  
“They might this time,” says Wesley. “If they know – and we have to assume they do – that you’ve got your memories back, they may have changed their plan of attack. Now that you’re free of their spell, the Ri’ipkis can no longer wait you out; they have to act.”  
  
“...Or somehow mojo you back under the spell,” adds Lorne. “Don’t be surprised if you find yourself doing the Timewarp again, Angel. And can I just say: not nearly as much fun without a corset.”  
  
“We’ll try cancelling,” you say. “If it doesn’t work, we’ll just... throw everything we have at them and hope they don’t make it out alive. Alright?”  
  
“What about us?” says Gunn. “What if we don’t make it out alive?”  
  
You look at Spike. He’s looking back at you.  
  
“Then we’ll just hope the day starts over again.”  
  
*  
  
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me they cancelled!” you growl at Harmony. “Why didn’t you tell me as soon as they called?”  
  
“You were in a meeting!” she responds defensively. “And it was really long!”  
  
“Harmony, this thing with the Ri’ipkis – it’s important! You’re supposed to give me important messages right away!”  
  
“They didn’t leave a message! They just rescheduled!”  
  
You stop glaring at her for a moment. “Wait. They rescheduled?”  
  
She’s pouting. “Yeah. They said, ‘Same time tomorrow.’ I didn’t know you worked on Saturdays. I’m not supposed to be coming in on Saturdays, am I? Because I so haven’t been.”  
  
“No,” you tell her grimly. “And tomorrow’s not Saturday.”  
  
When you tell Wesley, Fred, Gunn, Lorne, and Spike what the Ri’ipkis said, everyone seems relieved – except Wesley. He looks concerned, and after a moment says, “Angel, may I have a word in private?”  
  
"Sure, Wes." You gesture for him to follow you into your office, and he pulls both doors closed behind himself.  
  
"I think you can see how this is a problem," he says.  
  
You can. You'd sort of hoped no one else would notice, but leave it to Wesley to pick up exactly what you were thinking. "Yeah," you say. "The Ri'ipkis don't care about what we do today, which means..."  
  
"They're expecting you to have forgotten everything again by tomorrow."  
  
You sigh heavily. You hadn't wanted to believe the implication. "So how do you think they'll do it?" you ask. "Come after me sometime tonight and recast the forgetting spell?"  
  
Wesley looks toward the ceiling speculatively. "Perhaps..." he starts. Then he shakes his head. "I'm by no means familiar with the magicks these demons are using," he tells you, "but I have a theory, Angel, that you may not be entirely free of the spell after all."  
  
"What do you mean? I can remember everything, just like Spike."  
  
"Yes, but unlike Spike, you have previously been a victim of the memory loss that's affected everyone else. Spike has never been affected. And according to what you told us, Spike's... death... occurred on the Original Friday, before everything started over, did it not?"  
  
"Yeah, it did."  
  
"So when the spell began at midnight on that night, he was already gone. But on each subsequent repetition of the day, an echo of the spell happens again. Spike is immune because the original magicks never touched him, but you and I - and everyone else - have been dosed repeatedly and thus lose all memory of each day we live through."  
  
"I... think I see where you're going with this."  
  
He gives you a humorless smile. "I thought you might."  
  
"You're saying that... I managed to avoid last night's dose of magicks because I was dead, so I kept my memories..."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"...but the Ri'ipkis don't care because tonight there will be another echo of the spell at midnight..."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"...and there's no way for me to avoid getting dosed again."  
  
"Well..."  
  
"And tomorrow, I won't even remember having this conversation. Fuck!" You walk over to your couch and fling yourself down on it.  
  
"Angel," Wesley says hesitantly. "There _is_ a way to avoid the spell."  
  
"Not without dy... oh. God." You shut your eyes. "Fuck. Fuck."  
  
"You've done it before."  
  
"Fuck."  
  
"Quite."  
  
These are your choices. Everything gone again... this morning with Spike, the progress you and your friends have made - however little there is. Waking up tomorrow morning hating a person you love and not having any idea that something's wrong... Versus dusting again, risking hell, risking the chance that the day won't repeat again, that the Ri'ipkis may give up on their plan and just leave you for dead. What kind of decision is that for someone to have to make?  
  
"Don't tell Spike," you say quietly.  
  
"Angel, he'll have to know sooner or-"  
  
"It's my decision."  
  
"Of course it is. I'm not disputing that, but-"  
  
"Wesley. It's my decision."  
  
He sighs. “Yes, Angel. You are, as they say, the boss.” After a brief pause, he adds, “There’s... something else I’d like to discuss with you.”  
  
*  
  
When Wesley leaves to return to the conference room, Spike passes him on the way in – as though he’d been standing at the door waiting his turn to speak with you. He gives Wesley a second look before shutting the door behind him. “Percy alright?” he asks. “He looks... off.”  
  
You pass a hand over your eyes. “Yeah, he’s... fine.”  
  
Spike looks at you skeptically.  
  
“You need something?” you ask. “Want a drink?” You take a deep breath and stand up from the couch, turn your back to Spike as you head toward the bar.  
  
“Just came to see if I should be jealous. Your watcher was in here a while.”  
  
“What? No, it’s... we were just... discussing. Plans and stuff. You know.”  
  
He walks up behind you and puts his arms around your waist, leans against your back. Your hands are shaking as you pour two drinks. Spike watches over your shoulder. “Tell me what’s wrong,” he says softly near your ear.  
  
“It’s nothing. I’m just... you know, anxious. Ready for this to be over with.” You pick up a glass and quickly swallow the drink in one go. Then, what the hell, you do the same with the other.  
  
When you set the second glass back down, Spike turns you around gently so he can look at your face. “Hey,” he says. “We’ll get through this. I mean hell, Angel, we’ve both _died_ , and it hasn’t stopped us yet.” He gives you a little smile. “So don’t worry. We’ll just do our thing, like we’ve always done, and everything will be alright.”  
  
“You sound pretty sure of yourself.”  
  
He huffs. “You’re forgetting, this is already the best day I’ve had in a long time. Not much could spoil it.”  
  
“I think you just jinxed us by saying that.”  
  
“I think we should shag on your desk.”  
  
The unexpectedness of this comment makes you laugh. “Is that why you came in here?”  
  
“Actually, I came to see how you were holding up.”  
  
“ _And_ to fuck on the desk.”  
  
Spike grins. “ _And_ to fuck on the desk,” he admits. “Can hardly think of anything else.” He reaches in his pocket and pulls out a tube of lubricant, holds it up with a raise of his eyebrow. “So. Want my arse or not?”  
  
You roll your eyes, but take the lube anyway. “And they say romance is dead.”  
  
Spike just smiles and leans up for a kiss, and you slide your arms around him. As you meet his mouth with yours, you can’t help thinking about what Wesley said. Tomorrow, will you remember this? You can’t bear the thought of forgetting it, of leaving Spike alone again.  
  
When he pulls back, he whispers, “Oh love, oh fire... once he drew with one long kiss my whole soul through my lips, as sunlight drinketh dew.”  
  
You kiss him softly once more before replying, “And don’t you forget it.” Then you tug his hand gently, drawing him in the direction of the desk.  
  
"I take it that was romantic enough?" he asks.  
  
"Quoting Tennyson? No." You stop beside the desk and turn, push him a little until he sits down on the top, beside your nameplate. "Lucky for you, I'm easy."  
  
He watches your hands as you reach for the button on his jeans. Before you can get it undone, though, he suddenly takes one of your hands and brings it up to his lips, presses a kiss against your palm. You pause, just looking at him, his face cupped in your hand. He's so very beautiful. Could you let yourself forget how much you love him? Would you die to remember?  
  
"Yeah," Spike murmurs, looking up at you with very blue eyes. "Lucky me."  
  
*


	5. Try Not to Remember This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which both Fred and Wesley provide refreshments.

*  
  
You join the others in the conference room about an hour later. “Any breakthroughs?” you ask. “Gunn? Tell me something I want to hear.”  
  
“Angel, are you okay?” asks Fred. “We heard y’all fighting in there.”  
  
“For the record, I heard something completely different,” Lorne assures you.  
  
“Spike and I weren’t fighting,” you tell her. “We were discussing a strategy.” Spike slowly enters the room behind you as you’re saying this.  
  
“But... he’s limping,” says Fred. “Spike, are you okay?”  
  
“M’fine, pet.” He glances your way with a smile. “The desk is a bit worse for wear, though.”  
  
You clear your throat. “So, any news? Anything? At all?”  
  
“I’m almost done with this translation,” Gunn offers, indicating the contract in front of him. “Those Ri’ipki guys had one hell of a lawyer. In fact, if I didn’t know better, I’d say it was us.”  
  
“It may have _been_ us,” says Wesley. “If these demons can manipulate time and memory, there’s no telling how often we could have come into contact with them.”  
  
“Well, at least I know it wasn’t me,” says Gunn. “I never would have drawn up something like this. These dudes are messed up in the head. Or heads. How many heads do they have?”  
  
“Just the one. No nose, though.”  
  
“Huh. Make that figuratively _and_ literally.”  
  
“So what does it say?”  
  
“The short answer? If you signed it, they would own Nevada.”  
  
“What?” You pick up the contract again and stare at it. It still looks like gibberish to you. “Nevada? How would my signature give them Nevada? Do _I_ own Nevada?”  
  
“That’s all they want?” asks Spike. “One measly state in exchange for our lives back? Bloody hell! What are you waiting for, Angel? Give it to them!”  
  
“Spike, I can’t give them Nevada.” You glance around the table. “Right?”  
  
“Well, I can’t say _I’m_ particularly attached to it...” Wesley starts.  
  
“Me either,” adds Lorne. “Well. Vegas.”  
  
“Nevada’s like... a hundred and ten thousand square miles,” says Fred. “I don’t think we should just give them that. I mean, who knows what they’d do with it?” She turns to Gunn. “Does it say what they would do with it?”  
  
“Besides ‘peacefully exterminating’ the entire human population?”  
  
“See?” you say. “I knew I couldn’t give it to them.”  
  
“It’s just one sodding united state,” says Spike. “You’d still have forty-nine others. And Puerto Rico.”  
  
"I remember the ambassador saying something about peaceful extermination during the meeting," you say. "He said that's what will happen to the Ri'ipkis in a few hundred years, when humans find out about them."  
  
"A few hundred years?" repeats Fred. "You mean, enough time to build up the energy to come back to today?"  
  
Gunn is looking back down at his notes. "Would three hundred years be enough?" he asks. "They use that number a lot. Three hundred."  
  
Wesley and Fred exchange looks. "Yes," says Wesley. "That would be the minimum amount of time needed to harness enough power for time manipulation. Give or take... fifteen years."  
  
"You said ownership of Nevada was the short answer. What's the long answer?" you ask.  
  
Gunn sighs. "If you want to know what the whole thing says, you might as well sit down," he tells you. "This'll take a while."  
  
And he's right; it does take a while. By the time Gunn is finished explaining the contract with all its stipulations and provisos and addendums, it's long past quitting time and dinner time and even well into your usual date time with Spike. You've got a headache.  
  
Using both the contract and your own memory of the neverending meeting with the Ri'ipkis, this is the information you're able to put together:  
  
In about three hundred years (give or take fifteen), humans will have discovered the population of Ri'ipkis living in Nevada and will have decided, rather than extending a diplomatic hand of friendship, that it would just be easier to get rid of them, and so will begin a plan of "peaceful extermination." The Ri'ipkis believe that if they could prove they had a right to be there - and if they could, in fact, strike first - that their species would have a chance of survival. With Wolfram and Hart on their side, how could they lose? Especially if the contract granting them ownership of the state turns out to be three centuries old. Other rights guaranteed by the paper include nonviolent disposal of any unwanted species (including humans) living on their property as well as unlimited waste disposal directly into the Gulf of California.  
  
Of course, none of this is expressly written out. It's mostly hidden in the complicated wording, in the myriad if-then statements and fine print. And Gunn explains that the nature of this particular kind of contract is such that it has to be signed voluntarily, so that in the future, when a test that hasn't been invented yet is run on the paper, the whole thing will prove to be legitimate. Meaning that they can't force you to sign it, they can't magick you into it, and they can't trick you into believing it's anything other than what it is, besides concealing the important parts in long words and boring speeches.  
  
That's a small consolation. They can still make you repeat the day until you _do_ sign it.  
  
There is space at the end for three other signatures besides yours. These three had already been filled in when the contract was first presented to you, making you the only one standing in the way of what the Ri’ipkis want.  
  
It's not fair for a decision like this to rest on your shoulders. The existence of an entire species, versus the human population of Nevada. You know what you have to choose, but it's still not fair. It's still something that should never be left to one person to decide.  
  
In your long life, there are only a few things you haven't done. You haven't climbed Mt. Everest, you haven't bedded a pop singer - except that once, you've never won the lottery or learned to fly an airplane, and you've never, ever, committed genocide.  
  
"I actually feel sort of bad for them," says Gunn. "I mean, they're only trying to protect themselves, you know? I get that."  
  
"They're evil, right?" you ask Wesley. "Tell me they're evil, and it will make this a lot easier."  
  
"Evil's a relative term," he says. "Although they did kill you yesterday. Does that make it easier?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Does for me," mutters Spike.  
  
"I'll do some more research," says Wesley. "I'm familiar with Ri'ipki etiquette, but there's still much I don't know about them as a species. Perhaps I'll find something that will ease your mind."  
  
"Thanks, Wes."  
  
"I may even find a clue to help us escape their spell without your having to sign the contract. That... is what you want, isn't it? To avoid signing the contract?"  
  
"Yes. It is."  
  
"Right then. I'll get started now." He stands up and stacks a few of the books on the table to take them back to his office.  
  
"I'll help you," Fred volunteers, standing as well.  
  
"You need a third?" asks Gunn. "I'm done here." He gestures toward the contract and his notes.  
  
"I’m here too, if you need me," Lorne says.  
  
"Alright. Yes. Thank you. The books are in my office." Wesley starts toward the door, then stops and turns to you. "Angel, when should we meet?"  
  
You look at your watch. "Eleven. That'll give us an hour to... talk. Before the day repeats."  
  
"We're not gonna remember any of this tomorrow, are we?" Gunn asks.  
  
"No, you won't. Not until we're sitting in the meeting."  
  
He shakes his head a little. "That's so weird."  
  
The four of them start to leave, but pause when you speak again. "Guys... thanks," you tell them. "For everything you're doing. It's been really... great working with you all. I know I don't say it much, but your friendship means a lot to me. I just... wanted you to know that. Thanks."  
  
"Angel," Wesley says, "it's truly our pleasure." He gives you a small smile and then, one by one, your friends file out of the room.  
  
When they've gone, you look over at Spike. It's a little over three hours until eleven, and you're acutely aware of the second hand on your watch ticking the time away.  
  
"What do you want to do now?" he asks.  
  
You stand up and take his hand. He stands up as well. "Everything," you say.  
  
*  
  
The elevator ride back up to your penthouse seems to take longer than usual. You spend the time kissing Spike slowly, your hand resting on the small of his back underneath his black t-shirt. This may be your favorite part of him, the smooth dip of skin beneath your palm.  
  
You feel the heavy burden of time hanging over your head, but you force yourself to go slowly, pulling Spike along behind you when the elevator opens into your apartment. You lead him by the hand to your bedroom, hang up your coat in the closet and take two pillows from your bed, put them into his arms, smile at his slightly confused expression. You take a thick folded blanket from your linen closet, and then you're leading Spike again by the hand, taking him toward the single flight of stairs with roof access at the back of your apartment. He follows silently.  
  
Once on the roof, you spread the blanket out, making a comfortable pallet big enough for two. Spike drops the pillows on top, and then you kiss him again, soft lips and firm, wet tongue, and maybe this is your favorite part of him, his mouth so eager and talented against yours.  
  
Spike's clothes come off slowly, each newly revealed bit of skin explored and kissed. Your favorite part of Spike is his belly button, and then his nipples, and then his right armpit, his left collarbone, his neck. Your favorite part is his neck for a long while, and you get the feeling that’s his favorite part so far too.  
  
Then you kneel down on the blanket, and Spike starts to kneel as well, but you stop him with your hands on his hips, keeping him standing in place in front of you. "Stay right here," you tell him, and so he does, his hands resting softly on your shoulders. You kiss the light trail of hairs descending from his navel, which becomes your favorite part for a few seconds, before moving your mouth down over the front of his jeans. You nuzzle against the bulge here for a while, then set your teeth lightly around the tip of it and listen to Spike gasp. You worry the denim back and forth over his flesh. This is your new favorite part.  
  
Then a button is unbuttoned, a zipper unzipped, and you're dragging the black jeans down Spike's thighs. His cock is already hard, straining toward you, the pink head peeking out from his foreskin. You touch the tip of your tongue to it, slowly, slowly, and lick. He breathes, fingers tightening on your shoulders. You tell yourself that you have time for this.  
  
"Angel..." says Spike.  
  
"Shh. I'm going to make you come in my mouth."  
  
You hear him swallow. "Oh," he says. "Right. Carry on."  
  
Holding Spike's hips still, you cover every square inch of the flesh before you with soft, wet kisses, listening to the hitches in his breathing as he watches you. A single clear drop of precum forms on the tip as you slowly follow the path of a vein with your tongue, and you study the drop as it trembles a little, clinging precariously to the end of Spike's cock. Is that your favorite part? You press your lips to it, kiss it away.  
  
"You're killing me," Spike murmurs.  
  
"I want to make this last."  
  
"Oh, it's not going to last," he says, sliding a hand in your hair. “But don’t worry; I can always go again. Sort of known for it, really."  
  
You smile, but the ultimate truth of his words settles uncomfortably in your stomach: _It's not going to last._ No matter what you do, however long you draw out your time with Spike tonight, it will all be erased by tomorrow. Your watch ticks loudly. You'd never really noticed the ticking before today.  
  
You part your lips, take the head of Spike's dick into your mouth, suck gently. You hear him groan above you, feel a slight tremor go through his body. You take him in further, let your tongue move slowly underneath his cock. The sounds he makes are beautiful, but you don't bother naming them your favorite part. Tomorrow, those little gasps will have never existed.  
  
You love the feel of Spike between your lips, the shape of him, the ridge of his cockhead rubbing along the roof of your mouth as you pull back. Your favorite part might be the taste of his precum leaking over your tongue, a flavor as familiar as his blood but at the same time very different, though no less desirable.  
  
You fall into a rhythm, bobbing your head, sucking, swallowing, moving your tongue. You try not to, but your motions inevitably begin to coincide with the ticking of your watch. You try slowing down, but now that you're into it, you can't.  
  
You slide a hand down to cup Spike's balls, feel them drawing up slightly as his self-control wanes and he starts to thrust into your mouth, fingers tightening in your hair. "Fuck, Angel..." he whispers. "Your mouth... is so... Christ, so good..." And you can't say anything back, but your other hand slides down over his ass, grasps one cheek to help guide his thrusting. Your fingertips brush over his asshole and he makes a quiet sound with his mouth.  
  
"I'm... fuck, I'm going to..." he manages, and you suck just a bit harder, encourage him with your tongue. Then he freezes, cock half-buried in your mouth, and starts coming with short gasps that you decide really are your favorite part, no matter how fleeting they might be. You move a hand to the base of his dick and wrap your fingers around it, wringing his climax into your mouth with firm tugs.  
  
He breathes your name over and over, runs his fingers through your hair. Says some things you don’t really hear.  
  
You swallow a final time, let him slip out of your mouth, and start licking over his cock again in broad strokes. There’s a slight breeze up here on the roof, and you can feel your saliva drying quickly on his skin even as you continue to lick. Spike’s erection barely softens at all and becomes fully hard again within seconds. Then you take his hand and tug downward, telling him quietly, "Come down here."  
  
Spike drops to his knees on the pallet and immediately kisses your lips, opening his mouth to your tongue. You kiss him slowly, thoroughly, let your hands slide down his smooth body and touch him everywhere. You tell yourself you have time for this, that you _have to_ have time for this.  
  
Spike’s jeans are still bunched down at his ankles, but he ignores them, starts unbuttoning your shirt. “Slow down,” you murmur. “We have time.”  
  
He pushes your shirt open and bites your neck gently, making you shiver. His palm rubs down over your cock through your pants. “Alright,” he says. “It’s your turn. I’ll go as slow as you want.”  
  
“Actually, I’m not done with you yet.”  
  
He pulls back to look at you, tilts his head. “That so?”  
  
You smile at him. “Lie down.”  
  
Spike lies on his back on the pallet, his head resting on one of the pillows, and raises an eyebrow at you. You reach for his foot, tug off the boot, and then pull the other one off as well. His socks and jeans come off next, and he’s lying there completely naked with his arms folded behind his head, watching you curiously, his cock still thick and hard against his stomach. You lean down and take it in your mouth again, and his toes curl up.  
  
“A bloke could get used to this,” he sighs, putting one hand down to card his fingers through your hair.  
  
You linger over his cock for a long moment, memorizing it with your tongue, before you pull back to let it pop out of your mouth. Then you move your lips down, kissing and licking a trail down the underside of his shaft. He “mmph”s and spreads his thighs wider as you mouth over his balls.  
  
When you put your hands on the back of Spike’s thighs and push up, he rolls his hips back, giving you access to his pink asshole. You slowly run the flat of your tongue over it, listen to his soft gasp of approval. Maybe this is your favorite part...?  
  
You pause to take the other pillow and tuck it under his hips to keep him in this position, then bring your mouth back to his ass. Today over your desk, your cock was buried in here. The opening seems so small, way too small for even your tongue to fit inside. But Spike's body is always accommodating, and soon your tongue is pushing slickly in and out of him, and he’s cursing and saying your name and pressing himself eagerly against you.  
  
“Mm-more,” he requests, and you oblige, digging your tongue into him more firmly and wiggling it around, making him as wet as you can. And then you move up to suck softly at his balls as you push one finger into his slippery entrance.  
  
“Fuck,” Spike curses. “Fuck...” And he grips his own thighs and pulls them back further, thrusting his ass toward your hand.  
  
You draw one testicle into your mouth, run your tongue around it, and then do the same to the other as your finger goes in and out of him, pressing up. And a moment later, you’re adding a second finger, marveling at the tight stretch around your two fingers together, still wondering how your cock fit inside Spike only a few hours ago. It doesn’t seem possible.  
  
You curve both fingers up inside Spike's ass, rub your fingertips gently against the top wall of his channel. He squirms, clenches around your fingers. His lips are parted in a silent moan, and his eyes have fallen closed. He's so beautiful, caught like this in a wave of pleasure. You rub this same spot over and over, just watching him. You have time for this.  
  
"Angel," Spike whispers. "Angel... please..."  
  
You start licking his cock again, just at the base near his balls. It's twitching up and down in little movements over his stomach, precum starting to leak out in slow pulses from the tip, the fluid dripping down to pool on his belly. Beautiful.  
  
"I love you, you know," you say quietly. Conversationally. Just an observation. Your fingers keep moving.  
  
"Yeahhh," Spike exhales. "I kn-now. Christ, Angel, I need..." He lets go of one thigh to reach for his dick, but you catch his hand with your free hand and place it back on his leg where it was.  
  
"Don't move your hands," you tell him.  
  
He bites his bottom lip but nods. His body is shaking just a tiny bit, and you lick a long, slow stripe up the underside of his cock, stopping right before you touch the head. More precum oozes out of his slit and drips down, connecting his cock and his stomach by a thread. "Please," he breathes.  
  
Your fingers go on moving in little circles inside him, pressing against the soft swelling there. "Do you like this?" you ask.  
  
"God, yes... But... I need..."  
  
"Shh. You don't need anything else."  
  
"Angel, _please_..."  
  
"Spike, I want to ask you something."  
  
He gives you the best incredulous look he can manage under the circumstances. "N-now? Bloody hell, Angel..."  
  
"Do you trust me?" you ask. Your hand continues to move, and Spike is breathing hard, blinking as he tries to focus on you.  
  
"Do I wha... yes. Yes, luv, I trust you..."  
  
"And you know I wouldn't do anything to hurt you on purpose, right?" You turn your head and kiss the inside of his thigh.  
  
He clenches around your fingers, voice faint as he responds, "I... yes, 'course I know that..."  
  
It's a relief to hear him say it. You kiss him again, then trail your tongue along the skin between his balls and where your fingers are. "And if I did do something that hurt you, Spike,” you continue, “you'd know it's because I had no other choice, right? That I had to do it?" You increase the pressure of your fingers, just a bit, and start lapping softly at his balls again.  
  
"Angel, what is... what are you...?" he starts to ask, but he doesn't finish. His eyes fall closed again and his head tilts back, mouth dropping open with a gasp. The small puddle on his belly is starting to spill over his right side, tiny drips rolling down his skin to soak into the blanket. You wonder how much he's got left in him.  
  
"Just tell me you'd understand," you murmur soothingly. "If something happened, you'd know it's because I had to do it, and that it's not your fault. Because I love you. Alright?"  
  
Spike's whole body is trembling, his knuckles turning white from gripping his thighs so hard.  
  
"Spike? Do you understand?" you ask. It's important that he tells you yes.  
  
"P-please," he whispers, voice barely there at all.  
  
"Spike? Listen to me. Just say yes, okay? Say yes."  
  
His mouth moves silently. It looks like he could have tried for a yes, and that's good enough for you. You push your fangs forward, sink them into his thigh without stopping the motion of your fingers. You only draw one mouthful of blood before his body spasms and jerks up, and he comes with a hoarse cry, cool jizz arching from his untouched cock to splatter on his chest, the intense orgasm prolonged by your rubbing fingers.  
  
And then he blacks out.  
  
*  
  
Spike’s only out for a few seconds. You slowly remove your fingers from his body and crawl over him, kiss his eyelids softly. You count the ticks from your watch: one... two... three... four...  
  
“Fucking hell,” he murmurs.  
  
You smile. “Welcome back.”  
  
“That was... God, Angel, that was...”  
  
“Good?”  
  
“Brilliant. A bloody artist, you are.”  
  
“Thanks. You know, we still have a couple hours before I have to meet Wesley.”  
  
“Can’t even move my sodding legs... Christ, I’ll never walk again, will I?”  
  
You chuckle. “I guess I’ll just have to keep you here. Damn.”  
  
“Well, so long as you satisfy my depraved sexual needs, I promise I won’t be any trouble.” He slides his hands inside your open shirt and thumbs over your nipples as you hold yourself up above him. “Is it your turn yet?” he asks.  
  
You sit up, pulling away from him. “Later. Are you hungry?”  
  
“Mm, little bit, yeah.” He stretches out on the pallet, shifts to pull the pillow from underneath his hips. Then he glances back at you sharply. “Did I agree to something?” he asks, brow furrowed.  
  
“Just stay here; I’ll be right back.”  
  
You slip down to your apartment for a couple of minutes, long enough to heat some blood for Spike and to gather a few other things. When you go back up to the roof, he’s standing naked near the edge, looking up at the moon. His hair is sticking up a bit, waving a little in the breeze. He turns to you and smiles.  
  
“I thought you said you couldn’t walk.” You hand him the mug of warm blood.  
  
“I flew. You aren’t having any?”  
  
“I’m... going to eat later.”  
  
He looks at you curiously but doesn’t comment further, just drinks the blood. You watch his throat as he swallows, and then you glance down at the sticky drying patches on his chest and stomach, the trickle of blood on his thigh where you bit him. “You’re a mess.”  
  
He finishes and sets the mug down on the roof ledge. “Usually, yeah.”  
  
“Here, let me...” You take the damp washcloth you brought up for this purpose and use it to wipe away the stickiness covering Spike’s front. He shivers a bit as the breeze dries his skin, and you pull him close, wrap your arms around his cool body.  
  
“You’re wearing too many clothes. I feel naked,” he says.  
  
“You are naked.”  
  
“Ah. That’d be why, then.”  
  
You smile. “Do you want me to be naked?”  
  
“I always want you to be naked.”  
  
“Okay then. I’ll get naked.” You don’t move.  
  
After a moment, he murmurs, “You’re not naked yet.”  
  
“Sorry, I was too busy holding you to bother undressing.”  
  
“S’alright.” He slips his hands down over your butt and squeezes. “I can work around the clothes.”  
  
You cover his hands with yours, let your fingers go between his. “Just kiss me,” you say quietly.  
  
Spike tilts his head up to meet your lips with his. The inside of his mouth is warm from the blood he just drank, and you can still taste it as you take these few valuable seconds to enjoy his mouth with your tongue. You can hear the seconds going past as you use them up this way, and you intensely resent your watch, but if you weren’t wearing it you think you’d probably still hear the ticking in your head, and that would be worse.  
  
“Anything you want to do,” you pull back to whisper, looking into his eyes. “We can do it. Right now.”  
  
One of his eyebrows twitches up. “Anything?” he repeats.  
  
“Anything. As long as we don’t have to leave the roof.” You reach in your pocket and pull out a small tube of lubricant, which you grabbed from your apartment just a minute ago. You hand it to him. “I have more downstairs if we need it. And I have some, you know... other... things. If you want to use... other things.”  
  
He looks down at the lube in his hand, then at you again. The back of your neck itches. You’re still wearing your unbuttoned shirt. “Angel... is there something wrong?” Spike asks.  
  
“Wrong?” You shake your head. “No. Of course not.”  
  
“You could tell me, you know.”  
  
“Yeah, I know.”  
  
He waits.  
  
“But there’s nothing,” you finish. You give him sincere eyes.  
  
He hesitates. “Alright, then. If you’re sure.”  
  
“I’m sure.” You put a reassuring hand up to his cheek.  
  
He leans into the touch. “So... anything I want?” he asks.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
He smiles. “What if I wanted you to wear ladies’ knickers?”  
  
Er. You drop your hand to your side and blink a couple of times. “Are you... being hypothetical, or is this an actual possibility?”  
  
“Would you do it? Tell me.”  
  
“I...” You think about it. “...Yeah. Yeah, I’d do it. But–”  
  
“What if I wanted to tie you up?” he asks. He reaches up to push your shirt back off your shoulders and down your arms, and you let it drop to the floor. “Would you let me restrain you? Blindfold, gag... everything?”  
  
You swallow. “Yeah,” you say. “You could do that.”  
  
He pinches one of your nipples, looking into your eyes. “If I wanted to turn you over my knee,” he says, “and spank your bum like a naughty little boy... would you let me, Angel?” He nips at your collarbone gently with his teeth.  
  
“Yes. I’d let you.”  
  
“Yeah? Might get to that one later...” He unbuttons your pants and then slides his hands around your waist, lets them slip under the material, palming over your ass. He squeezes. “What if I wanted to fuck your mouth,” Spike asks, “in front of your friends? Show them how much you love my cock? Would you get on your knees for me in your big fancy office and–”  
  
“Yes,” you tell him seriously. “If you asked me to, I'd do it.”  
  
“Really?” He leans back to look you in the eye. “You wouldn’t check first to see if I was evil?”  
  
“No, the sex always comes first. Number one rule of being a superhero.”  
  
He smiles. “Teach you that in superhero school, did they?”  
  
“What do you really want to do, Spike?” you ask. “Name it. Anything.”  
  
Spike sighs, then leans forward to press his face against your neck. “You don’t have to promise me anything, Angel,” he says. “Just want to make love. That’s all.”  
  
You couldn’t have asked for a better answer. You give Spike a tight hug and kiss the top of his head. “Okay,” you murmur. “We can do that.”  
  
“And maybe the spanking thing later. That sounded hot.”  
  
You chuckle. “Alright,” you tell him. “Next time.”  
  
*  
  
You and Spike make love on the roof of Wolfram and Hart.  
  
Spike’s ass is a little sore from earlier, and he winces when he takes you in, but when you ask if he wants to stop, he says no, that this is the way he wants it, with you lying on your back on the pallet you made and him on top, riding your cock as slowly as either of you can stand it.  
  
It seems to last forever. And Spike is so beautiful moving above you, all of his muscles flexing, stiff cock bobbing up and down, that you have to keep your eyes closed for almost the whole time so you won’t come too soon. It’s torture, but it’s better than you’ve ever had before, and Spike tells you that it hurts, but it hurts _good_ , and he whispers how much he’s in love with you as he takes your hands and pins them down above your head so you can’t touch him.  
  
The two of you come at exactly the same time. And afterwards, as you both lay panting on the little pallet, you pull Spike’s back to your chest and you tell him how much you’re in love with _him_ , which is something you find you can only confess at moments like this, which makes you grateful for moments like this because otherwise he might never have known.  
  
“And yet,” Spike says quietly, “you still can’t tell me what’s wrong.”  
  
You don’t say anything.  
  
“I can tell something’s bothering you, Angel. I’ve known you longer than anyone. No use trying to hide from me.”  
  
“It’s this whole thing,” you tell him. “The Ri’ipkis and... everything. You should be upset too.”  
  
“That’s one answer,” he agrees. “What’s the real one?”  
  
You sigh.  
  
“Talk to me, pet,” he coaxes. “You afraid I’ll get angry? That I’ll, what, leave you? No way you’ll be rid of me that easy. Ought to know that by now.”  
  
You pull him closer. Just having him in your arms makes this a little easier. “I have to do something,” you finally say. “And I’m... scared.”  
  
He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then, slowly, he turns around on the blanket so he can look into your eyes. He takes your hand. “Whatever it is,” he says softly, “we’ll do it together.”  
  
*  
  
You’re late for your meeting with Wesley. As aware of the time as you’ve been, it’s still a struggle making yourself leave the comfort of Spike’s arms for the task waiting for you in your office. But, as promised, Spike accompanies you, holding your hand the entire way down.  
  
It’s mostly dark in the building, except for the small lights that remain on all the time, casting a greyish glow over everything. It’s spooky, being down here this late, the normally bustling lobby deserted. Spike’s booted footsteps echo as you drift from the elevator to your office like a ghost.  
  
Your office lights are on but have been dimmed. “Angel,” Wesley greets you. “I wondered if you... might have changed your mind.”  
  
“No,” you tell him. “But you still could.”  
  
He huffs softly. “I’ve spent the last few hours convincing myself not to.”  
  
You just nod, and then you both go quiet for a moment. Then, as an afterthought, you gesture toward Spike and say, “Spike came with me.”  
  
“I see that. Hello, Spike.”  
  
Spike nods. “Percy.”  
  
After another short silence, wherein no one looks at each other, Wesley clears his throat. “I’ve... brought someone with me as well,” he says.  
  
“What? Who?” You look around.  
  
“She just stepped out for a – oh, there she is.”  
  
Fred tiptoes into the room. “It’s so quiet in here,” she whispers. “It’s kinda... spooky. Hey, Angel. Spike.” She holds up a box. “I brought snacks.”  
  
“Snacks?” you repeat. “Fred, why are you–?”  
  
“I want to do it too,” she says.  
  
“No, you don’t,” you quickly reply. “Go home.” And to Wesley, “I can’t believe you told her.”  
  
“She’s an adult, Angel. She can make her own decisions.”  
  
“ _She_ ’s standing in the room,” says Fred. “And she’s chosen already.” She holds up the box. “Cheezit?”  
  
You and Wesley stare at the Cheezit box.  
  
“I’ll have one,” Spike finally says. “Thanks, luv.”  
  
She hands him the crackers. “I wasn’t sure if... I mean, I almost brought booze instead, but I didn’t want to imply that we should get drunk first because... I’m fairly sure you shouldn’t drink and die.” She smiles nervously. “Okay, that was funnier before I said it out loud.”  
  
“Fred, you shouldn’t be here,” you try again. “Neither of you should.”  
  
“Angel, we’ve been over this,” says Wesley. “If we’re to have any hope of helping you tomorrow, this has to happen. We simply cannot start from scratch; it will take too long to get to this point again, and the Ri’ipkis are expecting to meet with you at two o’clock.”  
  
“I know, but...”  
  
“And,” Fred adds, “I have a hunch.”  
  
“A hunch?”  
  
“I might have come up with a plan, but I have to think on it some more. And I can’t think on it if I don’t remember, now can I?”  
  
“Makes sense,” says Spike.  
  
You turn to him. “You’re agreeing with this?”  
  
“I agreed to help you,” he says. “This is a way I can help.”  
  
“So you’re, what, offering to kill Fred while I kill Wesley?”  
  
“Aw, thanks, Spike,” says Fred. “That’s really... thank you.”  
  
“I thought, maybe... one and then the other,” says Wesley, “rather than concurrently.” He looks at Fred. “I’d like to stay with her.”  
  
She smiles at him. You're not sure what to say.  
  
“So where’s Charlie?” asks Spike eventually. “And the lounge lizard? Or didn’t you invite them to this little party?”  
  
“We thought about it,” says Fred, “But we didn’t want them to feel obligated. I mean, Charles has done all he can do already anyway, what with translating that contract for us, and Lorne has... well, you know, even if we started right now, there wouldn’t really be enough time to kill him before midnight, with all the ritual desecration and stuff.”  
  
“Speaking of time,” says Wesley, “perhaps we should get on with it? Not that I’m in a hurry, exactly, but... no use putting it off, is there?”  
  
You glance at your watch. Thirty-two minutes. “Are you absolutely sure, Wes? Fred? You can still change your mind. We won’t think any less of you.”  
  
“Angel, I’m okay with this,” says Fred. “Really.”  
  
“But what if...”  
  
“Angel, listen,” Wesley says. “We’ve been theorizing about this loophole in the spell, and I’m positive it has to do with the soul. And Fred and I both have souls, so we’ll be safe. You don’t have to worry about us."  
  
"Plus, the Ri'ipkis basically told you straight up that they're making the day repeat tomorrow, too," adds Fred. "So there's no reason to be afraid that this will be permanent."  
  
You sigh. "It'll hurt."  
  
"Not for very long. And according to you and Spike, we won't remember that part."  
  
"I'll remember what I did to you," you say softly.  
  
"What _we_ did," Spike corrects.  
  
"You'll remember that you did what was necessary to save people's lives. That's not a bad thing, Angel," says Wesley.  
  
You give him a sad smile. "Perspective. You're good at that, Wes. Always have been."  
  
"I try."  
  
Fred clears her throat. "So," she says, a little too loudly. "Where do you want me? Should I just, you know, stand here, or would it be better if..."  
  
"Standing is fine," Spike tells her. He sets the box of crackers on your desk, unopened, and takes a step toward Fred. She doesn't move, but she's not looking at his face either. Her eyes are trained somewhere around his chest. "You alright, pet?" he asks, ducking his head a little to look at her.  
  
"Yes. Fine. I'm great." She smiles quickly, but you can smell her fear like it's a thing she's carrying in her hands. "Just a little... you know, nervous. Never died before. Which is, I guess, odd, considering who I work for and... who my friends are..."  
  
He puts his hands on her shoulders and she stops talking. "You don't have to be scared," he says softly. "I won't hurt you."  
  
"No, you're just going to..." She pauses, takes a sudden deep breath. "Sorry, I'm... I just have to... Wesley?" She turns toward him, and he immediately takes her hand.  
  
"I'm here," he says. "Spike won't do anything until you're ready."  
  
She nods, reaches up to wipe her eyes. "I'm sorry... don't pay any attention to me, just being... silly..."  
  
"I think you're very brave," Spike tells her. "Even if you don't want to do this, you're very brave."  
  
"No, I... I have to do it," she says. She swallows. She looks over at you. "Angel? Come stand beside me?"  
  
You move to her side and take her other hand. "Where did you wake up this morning, Fred?" you ask her.  
  
She blinks. "Um. I was... I was in my office," she says. "I worked late last night and... no, Thursday night, and... this morning I woke up in my office."  
  
You nod, squeeze her hand. "When you wake up in the morning, we'll be there. Alright?"  
  
She gives you a heartfelt smile. "Alright," she says. "I'd like that. Thank you." Then she turns to face Spike. "I'm... ready now." Her small hand tightens around your fingers.  
  
"You're sure?"  
  
"Positive." She squeezes her eyes shut and holds her breath.  
  
"Fred," he says. She opens her eyes tentatively, and he smiles at her. "I'm going to make this very quick, alright?" At her nod, Spike reaches up and gently cups the back of her head with one hand and her chin with the other. You feel her start to shake, and you give her hand another small squeeze. "Just try to relax," says Spike. "Don't fight me." You see a tear slip down her cheek as she nods, and your throat tightens, but you don't say anything. "Count of five, pet. You won't feel a thing." Your jaw clenches at the lie. "One," says Spike. "Two."  
  
He snaps her neck on three, and you're already in place to catch her limp form in your arms as she falls. You quickly adjust her head in the crook of your elbow so that it doesn't look an odd angle if Wesley happens to be watching. You hear him make a soft sound as he looks down at her body. He's still holding her hand tightly.  
  
"Wes," you say. His eyes don't move away from her face. "I'm going to put her on the couch."  
  
He nods and lets go of her. Her arm droops down.  
  
You move Fred's impossibly light body to the couch and lay her down carefully, make sure that her head isn't crooked. Her eyes are closed. There is still a tear on her cheek, and you brush it away with your thumb. You hear Wesley murmur, "Oh God. Oh, God..."  
  
"She'll be alright," you say, looking at her. "We'll see her in the morning."  
  
"Come with us," Spike says to Wesley. He swallows. "Be there when she wakes up. She'll like that."  
  
"I... yes," Wesley manages. "Yes, of course." He looks very pale when you turn to face him. He doesn't look at you. "I... I wake up in my office as well," he says. "There's a... a small cot, just in case..."  
  
"We'll come and get you," you tell him. "It won't feel like any time has passed at all."  
  
He nods, still looking toward the couch.  
  
You put a hand on his shoulder, and you feel the tiny flinch that he tries not to show. "Do you still want to do this?" you ask quietly.  
  
He doesn't hesitate. "Yes."  
  
"Alright," you say. "I'm ready when you are."  
  
"I thought... perhaps, the more traditional way?" he suggests. He makes a vague gesture toward his neck.  
  
"Whatever you want," you tell him.  
  
"I just thought... watcher, vampire... it would seem... appropriate."  
  
"Makes sense. It'll... take longer."  
  
"Yes," he says.  
  
"Okay, then."  
  
He clears his throat. "I tried to think of something to say earlier. To... mark the occasion. But there doesn't appear to be anything left to say. It's just a normal day for us, isn't it? Risking our lives to save the world."  
  
"That's a good way to think of it," you tell him.  
  
"Perspective," he says. He gives you a small smile. "I try."  
  
"For the record, though, there's nothing normal about risking your life, for anything. You're a good man, Wesley. Don't act like your sacrifice is nothing."  
  
He exhales deeply. "Thank you, Angel. I... suppose I'm ready. Any words of advice?"  
  
You push your demon face forward. "Try not to remember this."  
  
"Noted," he says.  
  
Then you bite him.  
  
Hot blood rushes into your mouth. You hear Wesley gasp, but he doesn't struggle, his body actually relaxing into your arms. You swallow over and over. It feels like a long time, but you can still hear his heartbeat fluttering, so you continue. It's been so long since you drained a living human to death that you can't remember how long it's supposed to take.  
  
Just before Wesley slips into unconsciousness, you hear him whisper very faintly, "Do you know... I always wondered... if it would be you." And then his body goes limp, but you still drink, pulling hard at his neck because the blood has stopped spurting into your mouth, subsiding to more of a trickle.  
  
Your cock is hard. You can't help it.  
  
"Angel," Spike finally says. "Angel, he's... you can stop now." Spike touches your shoulder. "Let him go, luv," he says softly.  
  
You slowly disengage your fangs from Wesley's neck. You notice now that his heart has stopped. The beat you are still hearing is the second hand of your watch, ticking away the last few minutes of the day. You pull your fangs back in.  
  
"Are you alright?" Spike asks you.  
  
You look down at Wesley's face. His eyelids are half open, but you can't see his pupils. "Yes. I'm alright."  
  
"Want to put him with her?"  
  
"I... yes."  
  
You carry Wesley over to the couch and lay him down next to Fred. His throat is torn almost in half, but there isn't any blood on his clothes, and none drips out of the wound to stain your couch cushions.  
  
You stand there a moment, looking down at your dead friends.  
  
"Almost midnight," says Spike.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"We'll go and get them in the morning. They won't even remember this."  
  
"Yeah. Spike?"  
  
"Mm?"  
  
"Where do you wake up every morning?"  
  
"Floor of my apartment, five oh three A.M. With a hangover." He takes your hand.  
  
"You wake up before I do," you say.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"In the morning... will you be there when I wake up?"  
  
"Of course, luv. Every morning from now on, if I have a say in it."  
  
"That's good," you tell him. "I'd like that." You bring his hand up to your mouth and kiss the back of it. "Let's go back up to my place."  
  
"Probably won't get there before midnight," he says.  
  
"We can try. Will you wait for me at the elevator? I need a minute."  
  
He squeezes your hand. "I'll be right outside."  
  
You just nod, and he walks out of your office, leaving you behind with Wesley and Fred. As soon as he's out of sight, you cross to your desk and open a drawer, look inside. The stake is still where you left it this afternoon.  
  
Your hand is shaking as you pick it up. You look at your watch. Three minutes until you forget. Unless.  
  
Shouldn't be too hard. You remember seeing Darla do it.  
  
He's worth it. He's worth more than this.  
  
Count of five, you think.  
  
One.  
  
Two.  
  
*


	6. Self-Important, Holier-Than-Thou, CEO-of-Hell, Richer-Than-God, My-Sire-Can-Beat-Up-Your-Sire, Caveman Hero Parade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Wesley doesn't wake up.

*  
  
There's noise coming from an alley. Two demons fighting. One of them is Spike.  
  
You approach silently and lean against the wall, watch them for a while. You know the moment when Spike notices you watching because, even though he doesn’t acknowledge your presence, his technique suddenly becomes much more careless. When he starts taunting the demon, you roll your eyes. He’s showing off.  
  
He’ll probably come up with some creative way of killing it, then smirk at you while you just shake your head, secretly impressed. You glance around the alley. What will he use? There’s a soggy cardboard box, a few broken crates... aha, a metal trashcan lid.  
  
You watch as Spike backflips neatly, kicking the demon in the face, and comes up right beside the trashcan, grabbing the lid off of it in one fluid motion. But just before he makes his final move, he pauses for about half a second to glance at you and make sure you’re still looking.  
  
Half a second.  
  
That's all it takes. That's all the demon needs - one tiny moment of distraction. A single glance in your direction. And now Spike is disintegrating in front of you, his head no longer attached to his body but his eyes still locked on yours, his expression strange, caught halfway between "Watch _this_ , Peaches," and "...Bugger."  
  
It takes longer for him to dust than it did for the demon to kill him.  
  
And what do you do? Do you shout? Do you call out his name? Do you simply continue to watch, stunned, as all that's left of Spike settles into a soft pile on the ground?  
  
It's your fault, you know. You could have stopped it. You could have saved him. You were just standing there.  
  
The other demon's head is suddenly in your hands, its body lying at your feet. You don't even remember moving. There's purple blood everywhere.  
  
You were just standing there. You just stood there and _watched_. It's your fault.  
  
You drop the head and feel yourself sink to your knees in the alley. A slight breeze starts to shift Spike's dust gently, and you hear yourself make a sound in your throat. But you can't stop the dust from moving. You try to catch it, try to hold it together with your hands, but it slips through your fingers... and you watch it go.  
  
You could have saved him. You could have saved him. You were just standing there.  
  
Your hands are stained purple. You feel completely, utterly alone. A tear rolls down your cheek when you blink.  
  
And you know already that it's that dream again; you always realize right at the end, when you can't smell anything. But somehow it's different this time. It's worse. It feels... worse.  
  
He looked up at you. If you hadn't been there, this wouldn't have happened. Of course it's your fault.  
  
If you hadn't stopped to watch him fighting. If you'd gone down another street instead. If you hadn't gone for a walk at all. If you'd just sat down and read your fucking book like you had intended...  
  
You're looking at your hands. This is what you do in the dream: you stare at your hands, and after a while, the sun on your face bleaches away the dream through your eyelids, and you wake up. So you're staring, and you're waiting, and... it's not working... and more tears come, and more tears, until you're crying in earnest. You try to look at your hands. You try to focus on your hands because this is what you're doing when the sun comes up. But where's Spike? Shouldn't he have been here by now? Why hasn't he woken you up yet?  
  
And you can still see his dust, the wind sweeping it from the alley a few inches at a time in little bursts, and you're waiting for Spike, waiting to hear his footsteps in your apartment, waiting to hear him call your name... but he's not here. He said he would be here and he's not here, and you can still see his dust out of the corner of your eye while you're trying to stare at your hands, and God, you were just _standing_ there! You watched him die, and it's all your fault, and _where the hell is he_?  
  
You wake up to the faint sound of someone crying. You think at first that it's you.  
  
It's still dark. Your face is wet, and you brush the back of your hand over your eyes, blink to clear your vision. A blurry form is sitting at the foot of your bed, a hand up to its face.  
  
"Spike?" you croak as your eyes begin to focus.  
  
The quiet sniffling stops abruptly, but he doesn't respond for a moment. Then, very slowly, he moves his hand, wiping his eyes hard before he turns toward you. Half his face is cast in deep shadow, the other half illuminated by the moonlight coming through your window. You've never been so relieved to see anyone in your whole life.  
  
Very softly, Spike says, "You fucking bastard."  
  
You clear your throat and try saying his name again. "Spike." It comes out better this time. "Are you... are you alright?" You sit up and quickly wipe your eyes again, then lean forward to reach for his hand. He moves it out of the way.  
  
"Am I alright?" he repeats. His voice sounds blank, nearly emotionless. It doesn't sound like him. "What do you think, Angel? Would _you_ be alright?" His eyes are pink, the damp lashes clumped together.  
  
And at first, you're not sure what he's talking about. It's too much to ask so early in the morning, and your mind is still stuck somewhere in your dream, still thinking about how you failed, still working through the relief that Spike's alright, that he came to you, that he's sitting right here. But then you remember.  
  
You remember looking down at Wesley and Fred, lying dead on your couch. You remember telling Spike to wait for you outside. You remember earlier, fucking Spike over your desk, hearing the stake inside your drawer shift back and forth with the force of your movements. Trying not to think about what you were planning to do later.  
  
If you remember these things, then you must have done it.  
  
Spike looks away from you. "Been sitting here," he says, "trying to... to understand. Keep thinking there's gotta be a reason, you know? Why you would just..." His voice trails off. He wipes his eyes again. "Can't think of one," he finishes bluntly.  
  
"Spike--"  
  
"Know you must think... that you had to do it," he says. "For some reason. You must think you had to, because... 'cause you wouldn't have done it otherwise. I get that. You're always doing stupid crap, Angel, if you think you've got to." He's still not looking at you. "The thing I can't figure is why you didn't tell me. That's what I can't..." He pauses, clears his throat. "Slipped your mind, did it?"  
  
"Spike, I--"  
  
"I'm just not important enough, maybe? I don't matter enough, in the grand scheme of things, to let in on the plan. Not even when it comes to..."  
  
"Spike, you know that's not it."  
  
"Do I?" He looks at you. "Told the others, didn't you? You told Wesley. You must have."  
  
You shake your head. "He... I... yes, but..."  
  
"Right. That's it then. I'm not important to you." He looks away again.  
  
Nothing could be further from the truth. "Yes you are," you tell him. "You're important to me, Spike." You reach for his hand again, but he stands up suddenly and walks a few feet away from the bed.  
  
"You don't know what it's like," he says quietly. "Being with someone who doesn't... who doesn't feel about you the same way that you feel about them. You can't know how it..." He pauses. "How could you know what that's like? You've never..." He shakes his head.  
  
"Spike, I do feel about you--"  
  
"No," he interrupts. "You don't. You couldn't." He turns toward you then, his expression suddenly angry. "The way I feel about you... it's killing me, Angel. It's _killing_ me. Can't think about anything else. I look around this whole bloody city, and all I see is you. Everything I hear sounds like your voice. Everything I touch feels like your skin. Close my sodding eyes, and you're there."  
  
He puts his hand against his chest, fingers spread wide. "It's like you're a part of me, like you're inside me, all the time. There's no escaping you, Angel. And the worst part - the worst part is I don't want to. I want to be inside you, too. I want to be all _you_ think about, every minute, every second, every day. I want to be there when _your_ eyes close. But just when I think... just when I think we’re... when it’s...” His voice falters, and his hands drop to his sides, fingers curling into fists. “Just when I think it’s all been worth it,” he whispers, “you go and leave me again."  
  
You open your mouth to reply, but Spike quickly turns away from you, wrapping his arms around his body as if to keep warm. "I thought we were in this together," he says quietly. "I... I killed for you. Murdered a sweet, innocent girl... snapped her neck like a twig while she cried and shook, and I'd do it again, Angel. I'd do it for _you_. And then you go and _fucking stake yourself._ ” You watch his shoulders rise and then fall as he takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, shakily. “What is this, Angel?” he murmurs. “Is it love? Secrets from each other, murder, _suicide_... Are these the work of love?"  
  
The fact that he even questions it makes you grit your teeth. "I didn't ask you to kill Fred," you tell the back of his head.  
  
"No," he says, staring out of the window. "You didn't have to."  
  
"Spike,” you say. “The reason... the reason I dusted myself--"  
  
"Don't," he stops you. "It’s not about why you did it. It’s about... you not caring enough to tell me. It’s about me never crossing your mind. That’s what matters."  
  
"Don't be an idiot," you say. How could you have forgotten how frustrating he can be?  
  
"An _idiot_?" he repeats incredulously, turning to you again. "Do you have any _clue_ what you've done to me? Angel, I’ve held your dust in my hands! _Twice_ , in as many days! How could you _possibly_ know what that feels like?”  
  
“I’ve seen you die too!” you tell him angrily, climbing out of bed. You go toward him near the window. “You know that!”  
  
“Once!” he retorts. “And you hated me at the time! You were probably glad – no more Spike to piss on your bleedin’ self-important, holier-than-thou, CEO-of-hell, richer-than-God, my-sire-can-beat-up-your-sire, _caveman hero parade_!” By the end of this sentence, Spike's face is very close to yours, and he’s glaring fiercely at you through wet, pink-rimmed eyes.  
  
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” you growl back, tear tracks still smeared on your own cheeks. “That didn’t even make sense!”  
  
Spike reaches up and pushes you forcefully, so that you stumble backwards a few steps. “You don’t love me!” he shouts. “There! Can’t get any plainer than that!”  
  
The accusation hits you like a spin-kick to the gut. You take a second to recover, and then you punch Spike in the face, hard.  
  
He clearly wasn’t expecting it and goes down almost gracefully, as gracefully as anyone can bounce off a fist and hit the floor. “YES I DO!” you shout down at him. “I did it for YOU! I fucking killed myself for YOU, Spike, so don't you tell me how I _feel_!"  
  
He's half-sitting up on the carpet, staring at you with a hand to his cheek, eyes still wet and brow wrinkled in confusion. You crouch down over him and grab his shoulders. "I. Love. You," you tell him slowly, enunciating clearly so there's no chance he'll misunderstand you. "I _love_ you, Spike." You're looking into his eyes with as much feeling as you can muster, and it's hard, opening yourself up like this, knowing that he doesn't believe you. He's looking back, and it feels like he can see inside you, and it's almost frightening how deeply you feel for him, how incredibly important it is that he understands right now, without doubt, the depth of your love - although you don't think you could ever explain it. You give him a little shake.  
  
"I love you so much," you say, "and they were going to make me forget again... and I couldn't... I couldn't let it happen. It was the only way to remember you, Spike, and I... God, I couldn't bear the thought of forgetting how much you mean to me..." You swallow, watching him desperately to see if your words are getting through. "Spike, I couldn't leave you alone like that again," you tell him. "I couldn't let myself wake up and not love you anymore."  
  
You can see fresh tears starting to form at the corners of his eyes, but they don't fall down. "Why didn't you tell me?" he whispers.  
  
"Because I was scared. I thought you wouldn't let me do it. I thought you'd try to stop me if you knew what I was going to do."  
  
"I _would_ have stopped you," he says. "Angel, I can't see you dust again. I don't think I could take it..."  
  
"I didn't mean to hurt you," you tell him. "I thought... I thought you wouldn't know. If I waited long enough, if I did it close to midnight, when you weren't in the room..."  
  
"I heard it," he whispers, and two fat tears suddenly fall, rolling quickly down his cheeks to his chin. "That sound... like a gust of wind..."  
  
The sound. It had never really occurred to you how awful that sound really is until you started hearing it at night, listening to it over and over while Spike disappeared. It used to be a good sound to you because before it had always meant that you won, that there was less evil in the world. But now when you hear it, it means less love; it means being alone. A tear slips down your face as well.  
  
"Went back to... to check on you, but you weren't there... and there was dust... and, and the bodies..." Spike’s voice cracks.  
  
"I'm so sorry," you whisper, pulling him close, against your chest. He sniffs hard, and you can feel his tears against your skin, a few of your own tears dripping down onto his shoulder with soft pats. "I'm so sorry, Spike."  
  
"I'd only just got you," he chokes out, "and then you were..."  
  
"I know... shh," you try to soothe him. "I'm here now."  
  
He wraps his arms around you, holds on tight, his fingers digging into your back. "Don't leave me again," his lips say against your chest. "Don't ever leave me again, Angel, please..."  
  
"I won't," you promise him. "I won't leave you, Spike."  
  
And even though you're crouched uncomfortably on the floor, listening to Spike cry, squeezing your own eyes shut to stop the tears flowing down your face, you're still somehow struck by the terrifying beauty of this moment, by the hugeness of the love you can feel surrounding you as you hold Spike in your arms. It's amazing, and you'll never tell him how glad you are, right now, that you did what you did last night. You won't tell him that you'd do it again in a second, just to experience this moment with him. "I love you," you murmur again, and kiss the top of his head. "So much."  
  
You feel him nod against your chest but he doesn't say anything, and you continue to hold him close, rocking slightly until his body stops trembling and you're pretty sure you've both stopped crying. Finally, he pulls back from you, sniffing loudly, and passes the back of his hand over his eyes. When he touches the left side of his face, he winces, and that makes you wince too.  
  
You reach out and let your fingertips pause close to his cheek, not quite touching him. "I'm sorry I hit you."  
  
He shrugs one shoulder, sniffs again, and glances at you with feigned nonchalance. "Didn't hurt."  
  
"Liar," you say softly.  
  
"Sorry I shoved you," he says.  
  
"It's okay," you tell him. "I deserved it."  
  
"Damn right you did. Ponce."  
  
His response almost makes you smile. You let one fingertip touch his face very gently and trace the fist-shaped bruise over his cheek. "I wish..." you start. But it sounds dumb in your head, so you stop.  
  
"What?" he asks.  
  
You shift over with a sigh and sit down on the floor next to Spike, your knee touching his. "I wish there was something I could do," you tell him, "or something I could say to you that would just... instantly show you how much I love you. So you'd never have to doubt it, no matter what happens. Is that stupid?"  
  
Spike thinks about it. "Yeah," he finally says. "It is."  
  
You let out a quiet huff. "You weren't supposed to say yes."  
  
"That's just... not how it works," he sighs. He wipes his eyes a final time and then looks toward the window. "Would be nice sometimes if it did, but... things, between people... take time. Wouldn’t be the same if you could say a few words and have what you want. Got to work at it, you know?" He looks tired. “You can’t force trust. It takes time.”  
  
"And you've had lots of time with me, but I've only had one day with you." You also look toward the window. "It's not fair."  
  
"Didn't realize it was a competition."  
  
"It's not, I just... I just don't want you to have to worry. Ever. I want to be the thing you never have to question, you know?" You press your knee against his, and he presses back slightly. "If there's anything you can think of that would help... convince you..."  
  
"Not dying would be good," Spike immediately says.  
  
"Okay," you tell him seriously. "I'll try not to do that again."  
  
Outside the window, the darkness is beginning to recede slowly in that pre-dawn time before the sun actually starts to rise. As you watch, you both seem to realize at the same moment that your hands are touching each other, and a slight movement later, his fingers are enfolded securely between yours.  
  
"No more secrets," Spike adds quietly. "If you're plannin' something, I want to know about it first."  
  
You squeeze his hand. "I can live with that." A pause, and then you ask, "Anything else?"  
  
Spike inhales deeply, considering. "Yeah," he says. "You should kiss me more." He glances at you out of the corner of his eye.  
  
You gently let go of his hand, reach up to cup the back of his neck, and draw him toward you for a kiss. Despite the pinkness still around his eyes, he looks pleased for the second it takes to lean in and meet your lips. The kiss is slow and sweet, almost like a first time. And it strikes you that this _is_ your first time, your first kiss since your body remade itself after dying. Are these the same lips or new ones, you wonder, and if they’re new, shouldn’t you try them out in every way you can to make sure they’re still good? When you pull back, you're smiling a little, thumb idly stroking the hairs at the back of Spike's neck. “You’re right,” you murmur. “We should do that more.”  
  
Spike is watching your mouth. He swallows, and his eyes flick up to yours briefly before he leans in again, taking your lips in a deeper, more demanding kiss, the kind that isn't an end in itself but is designed to lead to something more. It lasts a long time, and Spike slowly moves his body over yours, a knee on either side of your legs, and settles his weight in your lap as the kiss goes on. You let one hand slide underneath his t-shirt to rest against the small of his back.  
  
When you finally pull back this time, eyes closed and forehead touching his, you have to tell him, "You are _so_ good at that."  
  
You can feel his almost-smile, and he lets his lips brush over yours very softly again. "You're not so bad at it yourself."  
  
"Thanks. I'm a little out of practice."  
  
"I'll let you practice on me," he says, in this low voice that makes the back of your neck tingle.  
  
The sun is coming up now. "I'm going to take you up on that, later," you tell him. "But I should get dressed now. We need to go see Wesley. And Fred."  
  
Spike gives you a reluctant nod and shifts off your lap to the side. When you try to stand up, though, he has your hand again and it stops you. You look at him.  
  
He looks at your hand in his. "Almost scared to let go," he says quietly. He glances up at your face. "What d'you think's going to happen today, Angel?"  
  
And you wish you could tell exactly what he's thinking as he asks this, but you can't. "We're going to beat the bad guys," you answer. "It's what we do, right?"  
  
"Yeah," he says slowly. "But... after that?"  
  
You looked down at your clasped hands. "I don't know," you say.  
  
He sighs. "You're s'posed to say we live happily ever after."  
  
You try tugging your hand away gently, but he still doesn't let go. "If I say it, will you let me get dressed?" you ask him, smiling a little.  
  
"Maybe."  
  
"Then we live happily ever after," you recite.  
  
Spike slowly lets your hand slip away from his. "Next time," he sighs, "try saying it like you mean it."  
  
*  
  
Wesley isn't in his office.  
  
"He said he'd be here, right?" you ask again, walking through the suite for the third time, in case you somehow missed him the first two times. "I mean, this is where he said he would be. Isn't it?"  
  
"Yeah," Spike says, looking around. "He should be here. Somewhere."  
  
"Well, here's the cot he was talking about," you say, gesturing. Again. "So... where is he?" You're trying not to panic. He's got to be here somewhere, right? It has to work the same way for humans. Right?  
  
"Dunno," says Spike. "Maybe there's another cot somewhere else?" He looks around helplessly.  
  
"But he said he'd be here," you repeat. "In his office. On the cot." You gesture towards it again. Oh God. You killed him. You killed him and he's gone. What if his body is still in your office?  
  
Spike approaches the cot. "It looks slept-in," he says.  
  
"It does?" You go toward it and look again. It does. At least that's something.  
  
Spike touches the blanket on top. "Someone was here. Recently," he says.  
  
"Okay, so he was here, but then he..." You take a deep breath. Of course. "He went to see Fred," you say.  
  
Spike looks relieved. "Let's go."  
  
It's still early enough that you and Spike are the only people walking through the building. You go straight to the lab, which is dark, but there's a light coming from Fred's office. Fred's not in her office either, though, which is scary for about five seconds, until you notice the soft cadence of two heartbeats coming from the small room off to the left.  
  
There's another cot inside this little room, like the one in Wesley's office. Fred is lying there on her side with her eyes closed, and just behind her, an arm around her waist, Wesley is also lying on the cot, his body fitting close against hers, curled around her tiny frame like a measuring spoon, his face turned into her hair. They are both asleep.  
  
You and Spike just watch them for a moment, listening to them breathe. They are both fully dressed but Fred is barefoot, her shoes flung haphazardly in the corner. Wesley’s shoes are tucked neatly beneath the makeshift bed, his black-socked feet resting near her naked ones. They look beautiful together. You try not to let this rare, sweet picture of them be ruined by the recent memory of their empty bodies lying side by side on your couch.  
  
You touch Spike on the arm, and the two of you turn silently toward the door, intending to wait in Fred's proper office for your friends to wake up. But then you hear her stir, and you turn back.  
  
"Morning," Fred murmurs, giving you a small smile.  
  
"Hey," you say softly.  
  
She blinks, then looks over at Spike, and her smile falters for a second before broadening again. "Morning, Spike," she says. "I'm not dead."  
  
He returns her smile tentatively. "Morning, luv," he says. "You don't know how good it is to see you."  
  
She blinks again and turns slightly to look back at Wesley. "Yeah," she says, still smiling, "some of us were very glad to see me today." She gives his hand a light squeeze. He doesn't wake up but snuggles closer against her back, his arm tightening around her waist, and exhales deeply into her hair. She pats his forearm gently.  
  
"We would have been here sooner," you say quietly. "I didn't know what time..."  
  
"It's okay," Fred assures you. "We're fine. We're actually... pretty good." She bites her lip and looks down, as though she has a very pleasant secret.  
  
"Want us to wait outside?" you ask, a smile pulling at the corner of your mouth.  
  
"Oh, you don't have to wait for us," Fred tells you. “We're going to dive right into the research in a minute. You just go ahead and... do whatever it is you'd normally do today. We'll call you when we have a plan ready."  
  
"Can I help?" you ask her.  
  
"Nope," says Fred. "We've got it under control."  
  
"I see that." You raise an eyebrow at Wesley's sleeping form.  
  
Fred smiles embarrassedly. "Don't worry, Angel," she says. "We’ll start right away. And I have a hunch – a good one."  
  
You nod. "I trust you," you tell her. "I trust both of you."  
  
"We'll call you soon," she says.  
  
*  
  
Whatever you’d normally do today.  
  
You try to think what that could be as you and Spike make your way slowly out of the lab. Today, normally, you’d be getting ready for work at this hour. Then you’d come down to your office and do a bunch of useless paperwork, followed by lunch, slow mental-slash-emotional torture, and then whatever Spike had planned. Or, if Spike weren’t around, dinner, brooding, and a walk with the possibility of slaying.  
  
God, your life is boring.  
  
Spike reaches out and takes your hand while you walk. "What now?" he asks.  
  
You sigh. "I guess we wait."  
  
The two of you end up back at your elevator, although neither one of you really led the other there. You ride up to your penthouse silently together. When you get there, you exit the elevator and walk slowly to your bedroom. Having found nothing else to do so far, you just sort of... let yourself fall, face-down, across your bed. You hear a flumff and bounce a couple times as Spike also falls onto the bed, his feet hanging off the edge.  
  
You exhale deeply but otherwise don’t move.  
  
“So,” says Spike after a moment, also not moving. “This the plan, is it?”  
  
“This is it,” you say.  
  
“Mm.” He doesn’t sound too impressed.  
  
“I like to go with what works,” you tell him.  
  
“Lying still?”  
  
“So far, it's working.” You roll over onto your back. “This is just step one, though. I’ve got two of the most brilliant minds in the country downstairs right now coming up with step two.”  
  
“Unless they’re shagging,” he says.  
  
"Well, there is that," you agree. Then, "Did you know? About Wes and Fred?"  
  
He glances at you. "Saw it coming a mile off. Didn't you?"  
  
"Well, I knew he was attracted to her, but I didn't think they were..."  
  
"Maybe it just happened today," says Spike. "Like you and me."  
  
You look at him seriously. "We didn't just happen today, Spike."  
  
"Yeah... S'pose you're right about that."  
  
You give him a small smile. Still lying on your back, you reach over and run your fingers through his hair.  
  
He catches your hand, squeezes it. "Can't say I saw this one coming, though."  
  
"Yeah, me either."  
  
"But it... makes sense, doesn't it?" he asks. "You and me. Together."  
  
"Not even a little bit," you tell him, and he chuckles, looking down. "Spike, I have to admit... I never would have pictured this. Us. Not in a million years. But now that we have it..." You draw his hand close and press your lips against it briefly. "I'd die before I'd give it up."  
  
He looks from his hand to your eyes. "You did," he says softly.  
  
And technically, he's right. You think for a moment about the stake in your desk drawer. The shape of it, the smoothness of the wood. What you did seems like a small thing now. You don't even remember holding it. "Yeah," you say. "I guess I did."  
  
Then you tug lightly on Spike's arm, and he obligingly shifts toward you on the bed. You move a bit as well, pulling him close, rolling him so that his back is to your chest and your arm is wrapped tight around his waist, mirroring the position of your friends in Fred's office. You both seem to fall into place naturally, as though you've been doing this all your life. It feels right. "But I do think," you add near his ear, "that if we hadn't happened this way, then we would have happened some other way. Eventually."  
  
"That so?"  
  
"Yeah," you say quietly. "Don't you think?"  
  
"Dunno," he says. "Our... present situation seems pretty damn specific. Don't really see how it would have worked otherwise."  
  
"I don't think the circumstances matter," you tell him. "If something is supposed to happen... it's going to happen regardless of what we do. A thing that's meant to be is going to be. That doesn't change." As you say this, you actually find yourself believing it. Completely.  
  
His hand slides over your arm, hugging it closer to his belly. "You saying we're meant to be, then?" he asks softly.  
  
And his back is curved perfectly against your stomach, your thighs behind his thighs, his bottom nestled against your hips like he was built with you in mind. Right now, it's enough to convince you. "I don't think it would feel so right to hold you like this," you tell him, "if I weren't meant to be holding you like this." You drop a kiss on his shoulder.  
  
You and Spike are so close that you can actually feel the tiny shifts of his muscles slowly relaxing as he lies in your arms. "That's... good to hear," he says.  
  
You smile against the back of his neck. "The new plan," you feel compelled to inform him, "is to go to sleep, just like this, for a little while." Then, lowering your voice, you add, "And when we wake up, we can... practice kissing."  
  
"I like that plan," he murmurs.  
  
You hum a quiet agreement beside Spike's neck and nuzzle into his autumn-scent, breathing him in deeply. And a moment later, with Spike folded into your arms, you let yourself let go of the world.  
  
It occurs to you as you drift off that of all the Fridays you've woken up here in this bed, this is the only time you've actually fallen asleep.  
  
*


	7. Vampire Kissing Practice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Angel's forehead is normal-sized.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's other sex in _Friday_ , but I've always thought of this chapter as The Sex Chapter. If you're more interested in the plot than the sex, this part can be completely skipped without any damage to story.

*  
  
There's noise coming from an alley. Two demons fighting. One of them is Spike.  
  
You approach silently and lean against the wall, watch them for a while. You get a pretty bad scare when the other demon nearly rips Spike’s head off, but somehow, suddenly, you’re standing close enough to grab the demon’s own head before it can kill him. You wrench the head from its body with a gross popping sound, and purple blood spews from its bulbous neck and across your shoes when the body hits the ground. You drop the head beside the body and turn to Spike.  
  
“Are you alright?” you ask.  
  
Spike looks at you reverently. “I am now,” he says. And then he throws his arms around you and starts kissing your neck.  
  
You give him a tight hug as well, and your hands slide down his smooth back and... over his ass, cupping the firm cheeks and giving them a squeeze. For some reason, Spike is naked. This is a Good Thing. You can’t help but approve.  
  
“You saved me,” Spike says between kisses. He licks up the side of your neck and bites your earlobe. “That is so hot.”  
  
“That demon was going to kill you,” you explain. “I was worried.”  
  
“Me too,” says Spike, “but I knew you'd save me. You're my hero, Angel.” He’s rubbing his whole body against your whole body. This is another Good Thing, of which you approve. “You’re so strong,” Spike says admiringly. “And very, very manly.”  
  
You let your hands go over Spike’s body, touching him everywhere, just feeling his soft skin over the lean muscles. You slide one hand into his hair and pull his head back so you can look him in the eye. “Yes I am,” you say, and then you lean down and press your lips to his neck.  
  
“And your hair... is always perfect...” Spike moans as you kiss him. “And you have a... great sense of... comedic timing...”  
  
You press Spike’s body roughly against the brick wall of the alley and pin him there with your mouth on his neck and one hand on his shoulder, the other hand moving down to wrap around his cock. It’s... huge. But even though it’s bigger than you’re used to, you’re secure in the knowledge that it isn’t quite as big as yours. You start jerking him off with quick, tight strokes.  
  
“Angel!” Spike gasps. “Angel, luv, look at me.”  
  
You tear your mouth away from Spike’s neck and look into his eyes, not stopping the motion of your hand.  
  
“I want you to know,” he pants, looking back into your eyes with complete sincerity, “I think that your forehead... is normal-sized.”  
  
Your hand tightens even more around him, and his eyes flutter closed, mouth dropping open. He leans his head back against the wall with a low groan. “Really?” you press. “You’re not just saying that because I saved your life and because I'm so strong and sexy?”  
  
His tongue darts out to wet his lips. “Really,” he says. “It’s just the right size... I’ve always thought so, but I was... too stubborn to tell you.” His voice is very breathy. “It looks just like... any other man’s forehead."  
  
“I love you, Spike,” you tell him.  
  
“I know that,” he says. “Shag me now?”  
  
“Okay.” You're naked too, all of a sudden, which is yet another Good Thing - although for one confusing moment you can't remember if you have on shoes. But it turns out you don't, which is fine. Must have taken them off. Yeah, now that you think of it, you specifically remember killing the demon and then taking off your shoes. You turn Spike around to face the wall, and he reaches back to grab your cock.  
  
"You're so big," Spike comments, guiding it to his body. His entrance is already slicked and ready. "Much, much bigger than me, or Wesley, or Gunn."  
  
"I know," you tell him. “It’s part of my Destiny.”  
  
"Fuck me, Angel," says Spike. "Shove your big cock inside me." You push forward into him and listen to him gasp. "Love this," he moans. "I love it when you fuck me, Angel. Feels so good..." And as soon as you start moving, he starts coming. Untouched, his dick shoots against the bricks, shot after shot, which you can somehow see happening even though you shouldn't be able to see it from your position. He calls out your name. Over and over, Spike says, "Angel... Angel... Angel..."  
  
For some reason, he's beginning to sound irritated with you. "Oh for God's sake, Angel... Angel! _Angel_! Bloody hell."  
  
"Spike," you murmur. Your hips are still thrusting, but you're not inside him anymore. "Where'd you go?"  
  
"It's called 'Escape and Evade,' Peaches. Least until you can control yourself."  
  
Your eyes open slowly. "Wha?" You roll onto your back to look for Spike.  
  
He's a good three feet away from you, lying on the other side of the bed, propped up on one elbow. He's got an eyebrow raised at you, looking as though he's trying not to laugh. "Never been that hard to wake you before," he says. His eyes flick down and then back up to yours. "Good dream?"  
  
You glance down as well. Dream. Right. You nonchalantly take the edge of the sheet and pull it up to your waist, clearing your throat. "Yeah," you say. "It was alright."  
  
"Looked better than alright from over here," says Spike, grinning. He moves back toward you, from across the bed. "The way you were going at it with the mattress... honestly, I'm a bit jealous."  
  
"It wasn't a mattress a minute ago," you murmur, rubbing your eyes.  
  
He chuckles. "Anyone I know?"  
  
"Maybe."  
  
He slides up next to you and puts a hand on your chest, then moves it down, under the sheet. Fingers cup around your erection through your pants. "Tell me about it," Spike says.  
  
You swallow, then reach down to cover his hand with yours and hold him still, turn your head to look at him. "I dreamed I saved you," you tell him seriously.  
  
Spike hesitates for a moment, looking into your eyes, but then he smiles playfully and gives you a squeeze. "And that got you all hot? I'm flattered."  
  
You relax slightly and smile. "Well. You were naked."  
  
"Convenient," Spike says. "Love dreams like that." His hand starts moving over you slowly, back and forth along the length of your cock with your own hand riding lightly on top of it. "So you saved my naked arse... is that all?" he asks.  
  
"No, there was... definitely more."  
  
"Tell me."  
  
His hand goes on moving. It feels good. Your eyes fall closed again, and you press down on his hand gently to increase the friction. "I asked if you were alright, and you started... rubbing yourself on me," you tell him. "Your whole body."  
  
Spike leans forward to drop a kiss on your jaw. He inhales deeply near your neck and then whispers, "And did you like that? Feeling my whole body against you?" His hand is still going, moving the material of your pants and your silk boxers over your hard dick beneath the sheet.  
  
You shift your legs open a little wider. "Yeah," you breathe.  
  
"What happened next?" he asks. He kisses your jaw again, lets his tongue slip out to trace around the edge of it and behind your ear.  
  
The tips of your ears are beginning to tingle. "I started kissing your neck..." you murmur.  
  
"Oh, I like that," he says.  
  
"And I pushed you against the wall..."  
  
Spike's hand goes for the button on your pants, pulls it undone. "What kind of wall was it?" he asks. "Rough or smooth?" He pulls your zipper down too.  
  
"It was a brick wall," you tell him.  
  
"Rough, then." He reaches through the fly of your boxers and closes his cool fingers around your cock. "You know I like it rough."  
  
"Yeah..." you sigh as he gives you a squeeze.  
  
Spike pulls your erection out through the front of your boxers and starts fisting it slowly beneath the sheet. "Then what happened? After you pushed me against the bricks?" he asks.  
  
"I started... mm, touching you."  
  
"Yeah? Touching me how?" Spike's slow massage of your cock is sending little bursts of sensation all through your body. You want to thrust against his hand, but you force yourself to lie still, let him set the pace. You feel a drag against your cockhead as he pulls the sheet down, exposing what he's doing to you. A bead of precum forms at your slit and your hands clench into fists at your sides, but you don't open your eyes.  
  
"I started touching you the same way you're touching me right now," you answer quietly.  
  
"You mean you were touching my cock," he says.  
  
"Yeah... I was touching your cock," you repeat.  
  
"Just like this?" His hand is slow, measured, squeezing up your entire length with a firm grip, thumbing over the head, then pulling your foreskin back on the down stroke. His fingers smear precum down over you, making your dick slide more smoothly through his tight fist.  
  
You swallow hard. "I think I did it a little faster."  
  
"Did you make me come?" His hand doesn't change pace.  
  
You open your eyes and look at him. Keeping your voice low, you say, "You came when I started fucking your ass."  
  
His blue eyes seem to burn right into yours. "Is that what you want right now?" he asks. "You want to fuck me against a wall, Angel?"  
  
You glance down at your cock sliding slickly through his fist. There's a tingle in your belly, but you know you won't come as long as his hand is moving this slowly. "Right now," you tell him, "mostly I just want you to move your hand a little faster."  
  
He grins, but the stroking stays slow and steady. "No," he says.  
  
You raise an eyebrow at him. "No?"  
  
His hand squeezes you. "Think I'll keep you wanting for a bit. Maybe make you beg. What do you think of that?"  
  
It makes you smile. "Sounds good. In theory."  
  
"S'better in practice."  
  
"You know I don't beg easily."  
  
Spike looks smug. "You will."  
  
Then he leans down to kiss your lips as he goes on fisting you in long, smooth strokes. Your mouth opens to him, eyes closing again. He feels so good, his hand and his lips and... his _tongue_...  
  
Spike breaks the kiss before you're ready for it to be over. When you reach for him again, he smiles and moves away, starts undressing you instead. So you relax and let him. After you're naked, you move to pull his t-shirt off as well, but he stops your hands and places them firmly on the bed at your sides. "No touching," he says. "Not yet."  
  
Then he crawls over you and starts kissing you again, one of his knees resting on the bed between your thighs, his leg pressing gently against your balls. You mmm into his mouth and slide your arms around him, but he plucks your hands off his back, one and then the other, and presses them back to the mattress. "What did I just say?" he teases.  
  
You squirm a little, thrusting up against him, rubbing your hard cock against his jeans. His grip tightens on your wrists, sending a tiny thrill down your spine. "You said no touching."  
  
"And I meant it," he says sternly, before sucking your bottom lip back into his mouth. Spike holds your wrists down against the bed beside your head as he goes on kissing you, and you kiss him back hard, enjoying the restraint. You could get your arms free if you wanted, but you really don’t. His thigh is pressed against your balls, and he moves over you very slowly, massaging you down there with his leg. Your cock is so hard.  
  
Against Spike's lips, you murmur, "I love your mouth."  
  
His lips are wet and kissed-pink as he pulls back. "I know," he breathes. He slides down a little to kiss and lick your neck, which makes you moan softly.  
  
"Maybe... you could use it lower down?" you say. Your hands ball into fists, but they stay firmly pressed to the mattress, held there by Spike.  
  
"Gonna beg me, then?" Spike asks, still mouthing over your neck, sucking gently.  
  
"Was just a... friendly suggestion," you tell him. Your neck tingles. "Not even close to begging yet."  
  
He huffs a small chuckle against your skin, breath cool as it grazes over the places he's kissed you. "Guess I had better try harder," he says. And he slides down your body a little more, his thigh coming away from you so that the only parts he's still touching are your wrists, and then he leans his head down and starts tonguing your left nipple.  
  
The sensation makes you exhale sharply, and you feel your biceps tighten as though you would pull your arms away from Spike's grasp in order to grab his head. But you force yourself to relax your arms and settle for arching up against Spike's tongue instead, making a small noise of appreciation in your throat.  
  
"Ooh, he likes that," Spike whispers, before moving to the other nipple and giving it the same treatment.  
  
You gasp as he begins to use his teeth, gently biting and pulling at the flushed skin before licking over it again with soft, soothing strokes. He moves from one nipple to the other, back and forth as they swell slightly, becoming so sensitive that just the feeling of his breath moving over them makes your cock leak, precum seeping slowly from the tip one droplet at a time. It's very difficult for you to lie still.  
  
You hadn't even realized your hips were thrusting up, searching for contact, until Spike lets go of one wrist to reach down and lay a hand on your hip, stilling your motions as he looks up at your face and smiles. "Do you want something, Angel?" he asks, looking rather pleased with himself.  
  
"I... didn't say anything," you respond breathily. You use your now free hand to grab the back of Spike's neck and drag him forward for another kiss, which he allows briefly before pulling back.  
  
Narrowing his eyes at you, Spike very pointedly takes both of your hands and secures them to the mattress with his again, this time down by your sides rather than beside your head. "Someone needs to learn some control," he comments, feigning displeasure. But there's a trace of a smirk around his mouth.  
  
"I still haven't begged yet," you point out, tugging lightly at your arms so he'll tighten his grip, which he does.  
  
"That's because I'm not finished with you," he counters. "Barely even started." With that, Spike leans down to your chest and scrapes his teeth softly against one over-sensitized nipple again, causing your body to jerk and your toes to curl up. "Give me a minute," he murmurs, tongue flicking out to soothe it, "and you'll be pleading with me to fuck you." He sucks the tender bud between his lips and lashes it with his tongue.  
  
"I'll... ahh, believe it when I see it," you reply, fighting not to squirm around beneath him.  
  
You're thrusting your chest up to Spike's mouth again when he suddenly turns his attention away from your nipples and begins kissing down your body instead, still holding your hands firmly against the mattress beside your hips. His tongue dips briefly into your navel, which sort of tickles, and then his chin is bumping against your cock as he licks at the sticky trail of precum on your stomach. You're so aroused by now that the accidental bumping pushes you dangerously close to embarrassing yourself as you watch Spike's face so near your erection. But he completely ignores it. The urge to grab his head and direct it where you want it is nearly overwhelming. You would probably try it if he weren't restraining you.  
  
Then Spike moves even lower, kissing around the edge of your pubic hair, and you spread your legs a little bit. When his lips reach your balls, you have to close your eyes. Just feeling him gently suck one into his mouth and run his tongue around it is almost enough to make you give in, even without the visual. You keep your eyes firmly closed as he teases you with wet, open-mouthed kisses all over your sac, followed by thorough lapping with his tongue. "Christ, that feels good..." you murmur. You risk a single glance down and find Spike looking up at you, one testicle slowly being sucked into his mouth. You swallow hard and shut your eyes again. "Fuck."  
  
You feel it slide back out of his mouth. "Ready to beg yet?" he asks. You can feel his breath on you.  
  
You don't say anything, but shake your head no.  
  
He chuckles. "Stubborn, aren't we?" He lets go of your hands and sits up. "Turn over for me," he says.  
  
Keeping your eyes closed until you're sure you won't see Spike when you open them, you roll slowly onto your stomach. Your hard dick pushes against the mattress, and you subtly grind against it until Spike takes your hips and pulls you up onto all fours.  
  
"Now don't move," he tells you. "Keep your hands right where they are." Then he reaches between your thighs and takes hold of your cock, pulls it back, and licks a long stripe up the underside of it, beginning at the head. You gasp at the initial contact, then moan softly as his tongue moves up over your balls and continues to your ass. Your hands fist in the sheets. "Knew you'd like this," Spike whispers.  
  
His tongue lingers at your asshole, licking broad strokes over and around the tiny opening before moving down again. He laps softly at your balls and then trails his lips down over your cock, sucking gently at the underside of it but not taking it into his mouth. He stops just short of the tip, ignoring the fresh precum that's slowly trickling out, and then licks wetly back up to your sac. You're taking shallow breaths, trembling as you try to stay still while Spike's mouth follows this path over and over.  
  
When Spike's tongue pushes into your ass for the first time, your arms give and you bury your face in a pillow on the bed, hips still up in the air. "Oh fuck," you mumble into the cool pillowcase. "Shit, Spike, that feels so... God, don't stop..."  
  
His tongue wiggles back and forth for a moment before he withdraws. "Say please," he tells you quietly, fingers tightening around your cock.  
  
Your knees spread a little wider on the bed. "Please," you whisper, voice muffled into the pillow.  
  
Without letting go of your dick, Spike shifts on the bed; you hear the drawer in the nightstand open and then shut. Then his mouth is at your ass again, and you're whimpering softly into the pillow as he fucks you with his tongue, rhythmically squeezing your cock at the same time. You're pushing back against him, trying to get more of him inside.  
  
"Ask me to fuck you," Spike pulls back to say.  
  
You swallow hard, then murmur into the pillow, "Please fuck me."  
  
"What was that?" Spike asks. "Couldn't quite hear what you said."  
  
You bite your lip and push your upper body up so that you're on all fours again, then look back at Spike over your shoulder. His eyes are dark, lustful. "Fuck me, Spike," you say quietly. "I want to... feel you inside me. Please?"  
  
Spike smiles and shoves his jeans down just far enough to free his dick. He doesn't take them off, though. "There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?" he says, flicking open the lube he got from the nightstand. He squeezes some onto his fingers. "Slut," he teases.  
  
"Just touch me again," you say, thrusting your ass back toward him. Your eyes fall closed as one slick finger slides slowly inside you. "Yeah, like... like that. Fuck."  
  
Spike takes his careful time preparing you, despite the urgency you're already feeling. By the time he's got three fingers buried in your ass, you're already barely hanging on. After what seems like much more time than necessary, he finally takes his fingers out and lines his cock up against you, asking, "Ready?"  
  
"God, yes..." you answer, then gasp softly as he pushes forward, his cock sliding easily halfway in. He pauses a moment to let you adjust, then pushes the rest of the way in with a quiet groan, until you can feel his hips flush against yours, the denim of his jeans scratching against the back of your thighs. You exhale a ragged breath, feeling impossibly stretched around him.  
  
"Fuck, Angel... so tight..." Spike murmurs, rubbing his palms up and down your back. Then his hands settle into place and his fingertips dig into your hips. He slowly pulls out almost all the way, then forces his thick cock back inside you as you grip the sheets hard in your fists. "You like it, Angel?" he asks you breathily. "This what you wanted? My cock inside your tight little arsehole?"  
  
You're almost overwhelmed by the feeling of Spike inside you, like there’s too much of him, more than you can bear, but also exactly the right amount. Your body’s trembling, fluttering inside and squeezing around him, and you find it difficult to talk. "Yeah..." you manage finally, “Spike, yes... fuck me... please..."  
  
He starts out slowly - long, intense strokes that drive the air out of your lungs in gasps. Every time he thrusts in, a clear drop of fluid rolls out of your cock and drips down onto the bed. You let your head hang down between your shoulders, and you can see your leaking dick bumping up against your stomach as Spike’s hips crash into you. This feels so good, even better than the first time yesterday morning. He's not even touching your cock, and you feel like you're going to burst.  
  
"Fuck," you breathe, squeezing your eyes shut. "Spike, you’re... killing me... Faster..."  
  
His thrusts come faster, shorter, just a couple inches in and out, rubbing against that one spot inside that seems connected to every single nerve ending in your body. "Like this?" he asks as you struggle to keep from collapsing from the pleasure.  
  
"Christ, yes, that's exactly..." Your arms are shaking as you hold yourself up, every muscle tightening. You’re teetering right at the edge of orgasm, and Spike’s keeping you there for what seems like forever, and it’s torture, and it’s _amazing_...  
  
Spike’s hands slide up your body from your hips, and he takes your arms and starts pulling you back, whispering, “Angel, kneel up... up on your knees... yeah, that’s it...”  
  
You let him pull you upright and wrap his arms around you, your back to his chest as you both kneel on the bed, his lips fitting against your neck as he starts to kiss you. Your eyes stay closed, but you can clearly imagine what the two of you look like this way, you naked and him almost fully clothed, your hard cock leaking untouched in front of you while his hips slow again to a languid thrusting, pulling you back from the edge but still driving you to bite your bottom lip, to reach up and cup the back of his head, press his mouth to your neck as you tilt your head to one side.  
  
Spike scrapes his teeth gently over your skin, sending warm tingles down through your body. “Angel... you’re so fucking gorgeous, you know that?” he whispers near your ear. His lips touch the same spot, and he sucks there until you’re sure he’s marking you, and you let your mouth drop open on a soft moan, rotating your ass against his hips.  
  
“Want to see you touch yourself,” Spike says. You immediately reach for your straining erection, but his hand stops you. He moves your hand up to your chest and presses your fingers against one swollen nipple. “Start here,” he says. His lips move against your skin as he watches over your shoulder. “Play with your tits while I fuck you.”  
  
You do as Spike tells you, too lost in your own pleasure to protest. Not that you would. He could ask you for anything right now, to do anything, and you’d do it happily as long as he kept moving inside you, rubbing you where no one else ever has.  
  
“Yeah... that’s it... just like that, Angel...” Spike encourages as your fingers pinch and tug at one sensitive nipple and then the other. You’re starting to breathe harder, sweat beginning to tickle your skin wherever Spike’s body is touching yours. He slides a hand down over your flat stomach, fingers spread possessively, as his thrusts pick up speed again. You gasp, clenching your ass tighter around him. Your cock is leaking freely, almost as though it’s being stroked by an invisible hand.  
  
“Gonna come for me, Angel?” whispers Spike. “Gonna come with my cock inside you?”  
  
And you’re so close... Spike’s giving you those hard, short thrusts again, one hand digging into your hip, guiding you forward and back on his cock, while the other presses flat against your stomach, keeping you upright. His lips are on your neck, and you’re almost there, but you just need... you just need...  
  
You turn your head to the side, and your lips meet Spike’s lips clumsily, the rapid motions of fucking making the kiss awkward and kind of sloppy but perfect. Against his wet mouth, you breathe, “Touch me, Spike... I need you to... to touch me...”  
  
“Where?” Spike asks you. His hand slides further down and wraps itself loosely around your cock. “Here?”  
  
“Fuck... yes, right there...”  
  
His hand glides over your dick, up and down, the brush of his curled fingers maddeningly light against your skin. It’s nowhere near enough, and he knows it. “Like this?” he teases.  
  
“Bastard,” you gasp, and you hear him chuckle. You quickly move your own hand down and squeeze his fist around you, use his hand to stroke yourself in time with his thrusts. Your cock is slippery and slides fast through his fingers as he fucks your ass. You curse and squeeze harder. Almost... there...  
  
Spike kisses your neck again just as you start to come. Your whole body shudders, but he’s suddenly holding you still with an arm wrapped around your chest, his other hand down low, wringing your orgasm out with tight strokes. You call out, feeling your ass clench rhythmically around Spike’s cock as you shoot several strands of cool jizz across the bedsheets.  
  
He’s breathing hard against your skin by the time you’re finished. You feel completely drained and lean back against his firm body, held up only by his arm hugging you tight against him. He squeezes the last of your cum out with one final, tight stroke, and you hear it plop onto the mattress. You groan softly when he lets go.  
  
“Good?” he asks.  
  
“Fuck,” you say.  
  
He smiles against your shoulder and then drops a quick kiss on the pink mark his teeth have left on your neck. “Now lean forward,” he tells you cheerfully. “My turn.”  
  
You nod and slowly lean forward, put your hands back on the bed again. Before you’re even in position, he’s already pulling back, his cock dragging against your insides in a way that’s somehow both pleasant and excruciating to your suddenly very sensitive parts. You bite your lip to keep from whimpering when he pushes back in. You’ve loosened considerably by now, but it still feels like he’s splitting you in half. You’re afraid you might be too sore to let it go on for long, but you ball your fists in the sheet and resolve to let Spike come inside you, even if he fucks you to death. Which, hey, wouldn’t be the worst way to go.  
  
It doesn’t actually take that long.  
  
When Spike comes, he pulls your hips against him hard and curses. You experimentally tighten around him, and he curses again and digs his fingernails into your sides and makes a couple more short thrusts. You can feel his cum spurting inside you as he breathes and gasps loudly, and it makes you smile a little. Even though you’re finished, the idea of Spike’s cum inside your ass kind of turns you on.  
  
As Spike’s breathing calms, you look back over your shoulder at him, and he opens his eyes and looks back at you. He’s practically glowing. He blinks slowly, looking all languid and satisfied, and you almost blurt out that you love him, but you don’t say it; you just think it really hard.  
  
“That,” you say instead, “was really...”  
  
“Yeah,” he says. His voice sounds kind of rough, but he’s grinning. “It really was.” And then he glances down and starts pulling slowly out of your ass. His cock frees itself with a quiet sticky sound, chased out by a tiny dribble of cum. He seems to regard the liquid thoughtfully before stopping it with his thumb and swiping upward, pushing it back in. You shiver.  
  
Suddenly, your phone rings. You and Spike look at each other.  
  
“Don’t answer,” says Spike.  
  
You crawl stiffly towards the phone and check the display. “It’s the office,” you tell him. “It could be Wes and Fred.” Without waiting for a response, you pick up the receiver. “Hello? Oh, Harmony... hey.”  
  
You roll your eyes and glance at Spike, who snorts in a told-you-so way.  
  
Harmony asks you impatiently whether you’re coming in or not because, hello, your blood’s getting cold and there are other vampires who work here who could use a little mink in the mornings if you’re not interested. So you start to tell her that no, you’re not coming in, but just as you open your mouth, Spike leans down and licks your asshole, and your reply gets stuck in your throat. Something like a squeak comes out instead.  
  
“Are you okay, boss?” Harmony asks.  
  
“Yeah, I’m fuh... fine,” you tell her as Spike goes on licking. His tongue pushes inside you, and you grip the phone so hard it almost cracks in your hand. “I gotta go, Harmony.”  
  
“So are you coming or what? Because I wanted to ask you-”  
  
“Yes, you can leave early!” you tell her urgently. Spike’s sucking at your opening now, using his tongue to clean out his cum. “Christ... in fact, take the whole day.”  
  
“Really? Thanks, bossy!”  
  
“Just... just go home,” you grunt, and fumble the receiver back onto its cradle before she can say anything else. “Fuck,” you say.  
  
Spike’s tongue curls inside you once more before pulling out. Your dick’s starting to harden again; you hadn’t gone completely soft anyway, but now it’s almost fully erect. He pulls away and gently pushes you so you’ll lie on your back on the bed, and you turn over like he wants, landing in a couple of wet spots. You pull a face. “Shower?”  
  
He smiles as he crawls over you. “Kiss me,” he says.  
  
Then Spike leans down and touches your lips with his lips, and you kiss each other softly, unhurriedly, like you have all the time in the world. He tastes like you, and like himself, and you can’t help noticing what a great combination that is. You reach up and card your fingers through his hair, not holding him to you but just resting there, and he sighs, traces your bottom lip with his tongue. And you think, if you could only touch one part of Spike for the rest of your life, it would be his mouth. This is definitely your favorite part. You could go on kissing him forever.  
  
Spike pauses just as the word _forever_ touches your thoughts. He sits up slowly and, looking into your eyes, pulls his t-shirt off over his head and drops it to the floor at the edge of the bed. His jeans are still unfastened, and you can see his cock, still mostly hard as well, peeking out through the opening. His hands rest on your chest. “Alright,” he says quietly. “Shower.”  
  
You both climb out of bed and Spike takes off his jeans as you try not to limp toward the bathroom. It’s a big shower, which you’re suddenly grateful for. As far as you know, no one’s ever been in it besides you, and it always felt a little _too_ big, but now it’s just right. It makes you think about how lonely you’ve been, and when Spike steps under the hot water with you, you immediately pull him into another long kiss.  
  
At first, Spike tries to wash you, but he doesn’t get very far before letting himself be distracted by your roaming hands and by your mouth. You don’t even pretend to try to wash him. You just pull him close under the water, running your hands all over his body and kissing him without stopping, without even breathing. You push his back against the shower wall and kiss him hard, then let him push your back against the opposite shower wall, the cold tiles a delightful contrast to his water-warmed body, and let him kiss you even harder.  
  
Your bodies slide against each other under the hot spray, and Spike’s hands are in lots of places at once. His cock is hard and wet and for a moment it’s right beside yours, gliding up and down against your wet skin, but then it slips away again. But you’re too busy kissing him to try to find it. You just want his mouth. You just want his mouth and every other part of him that you’re touching. His mouth, and every part, and his hands on your body.  
  
Words are slipping out between kisses. He’s saying your name, and you’re saying his name, and you’re both saying other things too:  
  
“Angel... Angel...”  
  
“Spike...”  
  
“Don’t stop...”  
  
“Love you...”  
  
“Feels so good...”  
  
“Do that again...”  
  
“Kiss me...”  
  
“God, you’re so...”  
  
“You’re so fucking beautiful...”  
  
“When you come, it’s like...”  
  
“Love watching you...”  
  
“Like you’re glowing...”  
  
“Wanna see it again?”  
  
“Wanna fuck you...”  
  
“Want you inside...”  
  
“Love you... so much...”  
  
“Love you...”  
  
And you find yourself pressing Spike to the wall again, or maybe he’s pulling you against him, and there’s something slick on your fingers and you push them into his ass, and he gasps and holds you closer, one leg wrapping around your waist as a bottle of conditioner hits the floor with a hollow plastic sound. You’re still kissing Spike as you move your fingers, stretching the little opening wide to accommodate your hard cock, and he’s clawing at your back, and everything’s so slippery that you can barely hold onto each other.  
  
He hisses as you press your cock inside him all the way. Probably too fast, but you can’t hold back and he doesn’t seem to mind, his fingernails leaving red tracks against your white skin, his voice telling you hoarsely, “Do it... do it, Angel... fuck me...”  
  
So you do, quick and hard, no buildup, no finesse. You’re normally a very patient lover, but this is a frenzy; it’s almost a fight. You’re crushing Spike against the wall, and he’s tearing at your skin like he wants to get inside you as badly as you need to stay inside him. He keeps sliding down the wall a bit and then back up as you fuck him, hands scrabbling at your shoulders for purchase. You grab his thighs and pull him up so that his toes aren’t even touching the shower floor anymore, and you screw him against the wall just like that, where he couldn’t get away even if he wanted to. But he’s still wriggling around just a little too much for you, so in order to keep him still, you push out your fangs, and you bite him.  
  
It’s a reflex.  
  
As soon as you taste Spike’s blood, you freeze. In a dimly lit, far-off place in your head, it occurs to you what has just happened. And Spike freezes too - which is sort of what you were going for in the first place, but definitely not the way you had intended. Shit. You didn't mean to bite his neck. Without prior consent, necks tend to be off limits between vampires - and while you've bitten Spike here before, an argument could be made for extenuating circumstances and... and this is very much not what you meant to do. So you’re standing there holding Spike crushed to the wall, your cock up his ass, your teeth halfway buried in his neck, both of you completely still, in shock, and it’s... kind of awkward. And the shower just goes on pounding down as though nothing’s changed.  
  
After a tense moment, you very carefully extract your fangs from Spike’s neck and clear your throat. “Uh,” you say. “I’m... sorry?”  
  
Spike blinks. He starts to say something but stops.  
  
“I um. Didn’t mean to do that," you continue. "I mean, you were... wiggling...” Shit. Shit.  
  
“You... bit me,” Spike says. Almost like he’s not quite sure that’s what happened.  
  
“I’m sorry. I just... I got excited. And I’m... really sorry.”  
  
“No, it’s alright,” he says. “You... I wasn’t really expecting it, but...”  
  
“Do you want to stop? We can stop if you... let’s stop.” You start to set him down.  
  
“Wait, Angel, we don’t have to stop.” His hands grip your shoulders harder.  
  
“I should have asked first.”  
  
“Heat of the moment, luv; it happens.”  
  
“I’m sorry.”  
  
“It’s alright. Really.” One of his hands slides up from your shoulder to the back of your head, and he gently presses you closer to his neck. “Do it again.”  
  
“Again?” You glance down at the crescent shaped mark you’ve already made in his neck. It isn’t very deep – you stopped yourself – but two tiny rivulets of bright red are slowly meandering down Spike’s wet skin. You swallow. “Are you sure?”  
  
“Yes,” he breathes. “Yes, I’m sure. Finish it.”  
  
The blood rolls very slowly, the thin trails diluting as they join with droplets of water. You catch the end of one small trail with your tongue and lick up to the source. “Alright,” you murmur. You lick the other trail up to the bite mark too. “Ready?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
You position your fangs back over the shallow wound, lips touching Spike’s skin, and press. He grunts softly as your teeth penetrate his flesh, sinking back exactly where they were before.  
  
“That’s...” he swallows, “not all the way in.” His body is rigid against yours, his fingernails digging sharply into your shoulders. “You’re cheating,” he says. “Want you to really do it, Angel. Bite me.”  
  
You hesitate, but not for long. Without examining why this seems suddenly so important, you follow Spike’s order and bite down hard, embedding your teeth to the gums, feeling his warmed blood squish into your mouth as he cries out, “Ah!”  
  
And for a moment, neither one of you moves. You’re like a statue fused together at both ends, a perfect circle carved from stone, set in a fountain, the water pouring down on you. You feel sure the two of you must be very beautiful like this. You _feel_ beautiful.  
  
Then, very slowly, still holding Spike’s back up against the wall and your fangs buried in his neck, you slide your cock halfway out of his ass and then push back in. He inhales a deep breath but doesn’t say anything, just clenches your shoulders harder and waits. So you do it again, pull out and thrust in, slowly, holding him still with your teeth. His blood tastes spicy.  
  
“Harder,” Spike growls, voice close to your ear, and he either means for you to bite him harder or fuck him harder, so you do both, clamping your jaw on his neck and ramming your cock into him again. He gasps and holds onto you tightly, and on your next thrust something like a sob escapes his lips. His whole body is thrumming against you, muscles practically vibrating against your skin as he strains to keep completely still. Your embedded fangs pull at the wound in his neck as you fuck him.  
  
You haven’t done it this way in years.  
  
“Angel,” Spike whispers. “Feels so...” His sentence is lost on the next thrust, but the one after that brings with it, “Don’t ever let me... forget what this feels like...”  
  
Never, you think. But there’s no danger of that; you’re going to do it often enough that he won’t have to worry.  
  
The last time you bit Spike's neck, you thought you were saving him. But there aren’t any pills this time, no alcohol, no death wish, no oblivion. You’re not saving Spike from anything. There’s no reason to be doing this except that he wants you to, and that makes his blood sweeter, and your cock harder, and your teeth more careful than they’ve ever been. You press him firmly against the tiles, and you fuck him hard and fast, but your teeth don’t slip out of his neck or tear it open. You’re just holding him there.  
  
You want to say his name, but you can’t without releasing his neck, and you’re not willing to do that. You press your fangs harder into him, feel them slide just a little bit more into the muscle, Spike’s flesh parting easily around your teeth. You’re as deep as you could possibly get, but you keep on biting, almost burrowing into his body, owning as much of him as you can. Your hips crash against him and against him and against him, hard. And he's taking everything you're giving him, still as stone.  
  
Suddenly Spike's ass starts clenching tightly around you, over and over again. You take your cue and begin to suck hard at his neck, and he’s perfectly silent as he comes, but his mouth drops open and his body trembles violently, fingernails scoring into your back. His climax lasts longer than you would have thought possible, and the water washes his spend down between your stomach and his as you continue to drink, waiting for the tremors to subside. Finally, his body relaxes against you.  
  
Then you slowly disengage from Spike’s neck and pull your demon teeth back inside. He’s lying limp against your chest, and you lick softly at the trickle of blood escaping down to his shoulder. The mark on his neck is bigger and deeper than a regular bite would be, but it should still heal quickly if he feeds.  
  
Spike is breathing. He’s got his eyes closed.  
  
You nuzzle against his neck. “Alright?” you ask him quietly. His blood is on your lips.  
  
He doesn’t open his eyes or say anything, but you feel a slight nod against your skin. He goes on breathing.  
  
You smile. “Want to go back to bed now?”  
  
A pause, and then another tiny nod.  
  
“Okay. Can you stand?”  
  
“There’s a cock in my arse,” he mumbles.  
  
You gently pull Spike up enough to slide your dick out, which makes him shiver, and then you help him lower his legs to stand. He’s a little unsteady on his feet, but he manages.  
  
You cup his face in your hand, other hand resting on his hip. “You’re amazing, you know?”  
  
“Yeah. I’m a bloody miracle.”  
  
“I’m serious.”  
  
He smiles at you a little, tilting his face up. “Give us a kiss then.”  
  
So you press your lips to his, let him taste a trace of his own blood in your mouth. Your whole body feels so alive right now, full and sensitive and ready to burst. The water hitting your skin doesn't even feel like water anymore; it's like fingers touching you all over, like silk sliding around you. You haven't come yet; your cock is still hard. Harder even than before, if that's possible. You try to keep the kiss gentle so you won't hurt him, but it's proving difficult to hold back. All you can think about is how much you love Spike, and how desperately you want to still be fucking him.  
  
As you kiss, Spike's fingers wrap themselves around your erection and squeeze. You mmph into his mouth and kiss him harder. This is the point at which you know you should be carrying him back to bed and feeding him blood and otherwise taking care of him, but his hand feels so good on you and you don't know if you could stop kissing him long enough to be of any use anyway. Better to just stay here, right? His hand goes up and down around your slippery hard cock, and you pull his body very close to you, let your hands wander down his pale skin. Yeah... much better just staying here for a minute.  
  
Then Spike puts his other hand on your shoulder, pushes a little. As though he wants you to stop kissing him. You don't. He pushes you again, sort of chuckling at your refusal to pause, and finally lets go of your dick. That gets your attention. You tear your lips away from his and pull back, breathing. "What?"  
  
He just shakes his head, smiling, and slides down to his knees, engulfing your cock in his mouth in one smooth motion. You gasp and reach for the wall to steady yourself with one hand, the other going to his head to hold him in place. You've been suddenly and completely embedded in his mouth, his nose buried in your pubic hair, your cock buried in his throat. And you hold him just like that, looking down at the top of his head, your fingers entwined in his wet hair, and he swallows tightly around you. And since you're too stunned to let go of his head so that he can make that familiar bobbing motion, he just goes on swallowing around you, over and over, his throat muscles massaging your cock, and you're too overcome with sensation to do much of anything except squeeze your eyes shut and simply feel Spike swallowing, and the water hitting you in the chest, and your knees trembling a little as you try to hold back.  
  
You manage to choke out his name once before you come.  
  
You're still hard when you finally let go of Spike's head and he pulls back, letting you slip out of his mouth. You're full of his blood; you'll probably stay hard for quite a while. As he stands up, he nearly loses his balance, and you grab his arm to steady him.  
  
He laughs softly. "Dizzy."  
  
"Let's get you back in bed," you say, and he nods. You turn off the water and help Spike out of the shower, grab a towel to dry him off. When you're both dry, you scoop Spike up in your arms - ignoring his quiet protest at being picked up 'like a sodding woman' - and you carry him back to the bed, depositing him on it with a satisfying little bounce. "Don't move. I'll get you some blood."  
  
*  
  
One good thing about a repeating day, you realize as you open your refrigerator, is that you never run out of anything. It simply replenishes itself, as though you'd never used it at all. This goes for both blood and lube, the two things you used the most of the day before. Convenient.  
  
You heat up two mugs full of blood and pop a bendy straw into one of the mugs before taking them back into the bedroom, your stiff cock leading the way. Spike eyes it warily as you hand him the mug with the straw. He props himself up to drink, and you set the other mug on the nightstand for when he finishes the first one. "I'll be right back," you tell him. He gives you a little nod, already sucking the blood through the straw.  
  
You step out of the bedroom, shutting the door behind you, and go to the den. You and Spike have been at it for a while, plus there was that nap first, so you figure Wes and Fred must have made some progress by now. You feel a little guilty that you haven't been helping them, but Fred told you they could handle it, and you believe her. You pick up the phone and call down to the office, dialing Fred's extension.  
  
She answers on the third ring. "Hello, Department of Practical Science and... Fred."  
  
You smile. "Hey, Fred. It's me."  
  
"Oh, Angel... hi," she says, immediately following with, "We're not done yet."  
  
"But... you're close?" you ask hopefully.  
  
She hesitates. "Well... it's... it's complicated. There's this whole space/time continuum thing... I could bore you with the details if you want, but mostly it's just... complicated."  
  
"Is there anything I can do?"  
  
"Not yet. We're onto something, but there's still some research that needs doing, and it's all just sort of..."  
  
"Complicated?" you ask.  
  
"Yeah." She sounds tired. "I'll call you when we're ready to talk about it, but I should get back to work. We've only got a few more hours before the meeting, and this has to get done before then."  
  
"Okay. Just let me know if there's something I can help with. Or Spike."  
  
"I will."  
  
"Okay." Then you pause a little awkwardly. "Um, Fred... how's Wesley?"  
  
She doesn't respond for a moment. You hear her take a breath like she's going to say something, but then she doesn't.  
  
"I just... I meant to speak to him this morning, but then he was asleep and I didn't get a chance, so..."  
  
"He's... yeah, he's fine," she finally says. "He's researching, so, you know, not really... available..."  
  
"But he's okay with... what happened?" you ask tentatively.  
  
"Angel, I'm not really the one to..." She sighs, sounding apologetic. "I mean, maybe you should talk to him. But later, because we've really gotta finish this..."  
  
You're nodding, even though she can't see you. "Yeah. I'll... of course. We'll just talk later."  
  
"I'll call you when we're ready," she says again.  
  
"Right. I'll just... see you then."  
  
"Bye Angel."  
  
The phone clicks as she hangs up, and you hang up as well, wondering how much Wesley remembers from last night. It wasn't exactly a quick death; it's possible that he remembers most of it. You sigh. There's no frame of reference for a situation like this - you've never killed someone you were actually friends with before. Do you act like it was no big deal? Do you apologize? He asked you to do it. Does he owe you a favor now?  
  
You hadn't realized you'd slipped into brood mode until you hear Spike calling you from the bedroom. When you open the door, he simply holds out one of the mugs and looks at you expectantly, so you take it and go for a refill. On your way back, you have an idea, so you make a detour to grab some massage oil before you join Spike in the bedroom again. You still have an erection and some time to kill, after all.  
  
*  
  
You're balls-deep in Spike's ass again when the phone rings. He's lying flat on his stomach on the bed, his entire body completely relaxed, face buried in a pillow, and his skin still glistening all over with a thin sheen of oil. You're straddling his thighs, fucking him gently with slight rocking motions. When the ringing starts, your hips still and your slick hands pause in the middle of massaging his lower back, and he rolls his head to the side to half-groan, "Don't stop..."  
  
"It could be Fred," you say quietly. But your hips pick up the slow rhythm again. You can always call her back.  
  
"Could be Eve," Spike murmurs. "Best not risk it."  
  
"Good point." You start sliding your hands over his back again, thumbs rubbing firmly into the muscles, and he sighs, turns his face back into the pillow.  
  
Your answering machine picks up on the fifth ring. It's Gunn. He's wondering why you haven't come in today, wanting to know if you're still on for lunch. You listen to the message while he's leaving it, but you don't answer. He'll figure out you're not coming when you don't show up.  
  
It's sort of weird that Gunn doesn't remember what's going on.  
  
"Whoever taught you this," Spike mumbles into the pillow, "deserves a medal."  
  
You chuckle softly.  
  
Another muffled moan comes from the pillow as you go on massaging Spike's back. His body seems to be melting under your hands, muscles loose and easily manipulated beneath the smooth skin. You're fucking him very slowly, massaging his insides as well, and this is something you feel you could go on doing forever without tiring of it - sliding your hands everywhere with your cock gripped tight and Spike all slippery and pliant beneath you.  
  
"I met a massage therapist in the sixties," you tell him. "She... helped me develop a technique."  
  
He rolls his head to the side to respond. "Hope you thanked her properly," he says. "Ah, yeah, right there... Christ..." Spike arches a little against your hands, and you rub more firmly, smiling. His eyes are closed, lips parted slightly. "Uhhhhh...."  
  
There may or may not be drool.  
  
The bite mark in Spike's neck is closed by now, the edges already fading. It will be completely gone within minutes. For some reason, you want to bite him again before the mark vanishes, keep biting him every couple of hours so it never goes away... but you settle for keeping an eye on it while you take care of Spike. Just seeing him like that is enough for now.  
  
"You're looking again, aren't you?" he mumbles, not opening his eyes.  
  
The question takes you by surprise. "Yeah... How did you know?"  
  
"Tingles."  
  
"Does it still hurt?"  
  
"Nah."  
  
"Oh. Good." You don't mean to sound disappointed.  
  
The one eye you can see opens, and he looks back at you suspiciously.  
  
"No, really. I'm glad," you say. You look down at your hands on his back and add, "I like taking care of you."  
  
When you glance back up, he's smiling a little. "Poof," he murmurs.  
  
"Look who's talking." You rock your hips harder against him for emphasis, and his eyes flutter closed.  
  
"Keep... keep doing that," he says.  
  
So you start fucking him a bit harder, thrusting deeper, and he bites his lip and lies perfectly still for you, although you think he'd be pushing back if you weren't sitting on him. You try angling your cock more downward, and you know you hit the right place when Spike's mouth drops open on a sudden moan. His muscles are starting to tense again under your palms.  
  
After a few minutes of your deliberately rubbing him in this spot with your cock, Spike is squirming and gripping the pillow hard, making soft little grunting noises. You can tell he's close, so you stop and pull out, and he throws you a confused look over his shoulder.  
  
You climb off of him. "Turn over," you say. "I want to watch your face when you come."  
  
Spike rolls onto his back, and you can see the spreading wet spot on the sheet where he was lying. At first you think he must have already come - how could you not have noticed? - but his cock is still rock-hard, flushed red from rubbing against the bed, so it must be precum. In fact, there's still some rolling out of his dick as he spreads his legs, ready for you to continue fucking him. You swallow and move between his legs, fit your cock against his asshole again, and sink in easily. He moans.  
  
Once you start fucking him again, it doesn't take long for Spike to come. You've got one hand wrapped around his slippery cock, the other braced near his shoulder, and you're kissing his mouth when he starts tightening up all over, mumbling your name against your lips. You pull back so you can see his face, speeding your thrusts, jerking him off.  
  
His eyes fly open just before he starts to shoot, gaze locking immediately on yours. And he looks so completely vulnerable and sexy in that moment that it sends a shudder through your body, and you start coming at the same time he does, his ass milking your dick over and over like your hand is doing to his.  
  
Afterwards, you're very careful not to collapse directly on top of him. You manage to collapse a few inches to one side, both of you breathing hard, and pull him against you with one arm. He laughs a little breathlessly. "Mmm?" you ask.  
  
"These sheets," he says, "have suffered for love."  
  
"Mmm," you agree.  
  
"Shove over a bit. 'M in a wet spot."  
  
With some effort, you're able to scoot yourself a few more inches to one side. You drag Spike after you, and he sort of laughs again.  
  
"Mmm?" you ask.  
  
"Nothing," he says. And then he says, kind of quiet, "Like it when you take care of me too."  
  
You pull Spike even closer to your side and press your lips against whatever part of him is closest to your head. "Mmm," you tell him softly.  
  
* 


	8. Some Kind of Hero

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Angel finally finds the words.

*

The telephone ringing wakes you up. You've still got an arm around Spike. "I remember," you mutter, "before that thing was invented."

Spike yawns.

"I should probably get it." You don't move.

"Could be Fred," he agrees sleepily.

"Yeah... I should really answer."

A pause. "Or you could let the machine get it," Spike suggests.

"That sounds good too," you tell him. "I think I will."

When the answering machine answers, your recorded voice only says two words before the caller hangs up. You start to say that it was probably a wrong number, but then your cell begins ringing from the other room.

"Damn," you say.

"I remember before those were invented," says Spike.

You sigh. "I guess I'll go get it." You don't move.

"Voicemail?" Spike suggests.

"Good idea." You wait, and your cell phone eventually stops ringing. You let your eyes fall closed, but a moment later your landline rings again.

"Want me to get it?" asks Spike.

"No, no... I'll get it," you tell him. You don't move.

"You sure? 'Cause I could get it."

"I don't want you to have to move."

"One of us will have to. Eventually."

"I guess you have a point..."

"I'll get it," he decides. He doesn't move.

The answering machine picks up again. This time, the caller leaves a message. "Angel?" Fred's voice asks. "Angel, are you there? I just left you a voicemail... when you get this message - or the other one, whichever one you get first... Wait, Wesley, did Angel ever figure out how to listen to his voicemail? Oh. Well, when you get this message then--"

You reluctantly crawl over Spike and pick up the receiver before Fred gets any further. "Hello?"

"Oh, Angel, there you are," she says, sounding relieved. "We've... we're done down here. We have a plan. About, you know, stopping the day from repeating. Are you - can you come down to my office now?"

"Yeah, sure... I'll be there in a minute."

"Okay, good. And... do you know how to reach Spike? He needs to hear this too, but I don't seem to have his number..."

"I'll let him know," you say.

"Alright, well, I'll see you in a minute then."

"Yeah, see you." You hang up the phone and turn to Spike. He tilts his head. "Ready to save the day?" you ask.

*

When you and Spike enter the lab a few minutes later, you're surprised to find it completely empty. Fred's standing in the doorway to her office, waiting for you. "I sent everyone home," she explains. "I mean... it's not like today really counts, you know?"

"Yeah," you say, following her into the office. "I sent Harmony home too."

There are two chairs behind Fred's desk. Wesley is sitting in one of them. He looks up as you and Spike come in, and at first everything seems perfectly normal, but almost immediately after you enter, you recognize the smell of fear. Spike glances your way, and then at Wesley, looking a bit surprised.

"Something wrong?" Spike asks. It's unclear who he's talking to.

Fred walks around the desk and sits down next to Wesley. "Not unless you mean this whole demony-time-spell thing," she answers.

"No, it's just--" He squints at Wesley. "You alright, mate?"

Wesley’s eyes are on you, and he answers as though you were the one who asked. "I'm fine," he says evenly. And he sounds fine, and he looks fine, but there's no mistaking that smell. You've smelled it off of him enough times to know. And really, you don’t blame him; it makes sense to be afraid of monsters. You did murder him last night, after all.

But even though you sort of expected a reaction like this, it still makes you sad.

"You sure?" Spike asks him. "Because you smell kind of--"

"He said he's fine, Spike," you cut in. "Let's just... leave it at that, okay?"

Spike looks at you a moment, then turns back to Wes and Fred. "Right," he says. "What've you got for us then?"

"Um, have a seat," Fred says, indicating the two empty chairs facing her desk. So you and Spike each sit down, and you try not to notice the fact that Wesley's fear seems to lessen a bit as you do. You suppose you’re not as threatening while seated. You suddenly wish you had worn some lighter colors. "Okay," says Fred, "so... I don't really..." She looks at Wesley. "Where should we start?"

"You had a hunch," he suggests quietly.

"Right.” She takes a deep breath. “Okay... I had a hunch. Yesterday, about the whole time traveling thing. It was something in the contract they wanted you to sign, Angel - the part about it being three hundred years until humans discover the Ri'ipkis and start killing them. And if it takes about three hundred years - give or take fifteen - to build up the energy to travel back in time, then the Ri'ipkis have to start harnessing the energy now or within the next fifteen years. You know, if they want to come back to today. Right?"

You nod. You can't figure out if it's appropriate or not to glance in Wesley's direction, so you keep your eyes on Fred as she goes on explaining.

"So I thought, if we could stop them from beginning the process of storing the energy - or if we could just put it off for more than fifteen years - then by the time they have enough, all of the Ri'ipkis in the future would already be dead before they ever got the chance to use it. Right? Because the humans would wipe them out."

"Right," you say. Then you add, "But... how can we put something off for fifteen years if we only have today to do it?"

"Exactly!" says Fred. "That's what took so long to figure out. But while we were researching the Ri'ipki clan last night, Wesley found an old Ri'ipki prophesy about an ambassador who, on the very day he was born, would travel through the mogdrenia and bring proablin to the gorshe!" She says this as though it will mean something to you.

"The... who to the what now?" asks Spike.

"Loosely translated," says Wesley, "the prophesy indicates that an ambassador of the Ri'ipkis will, on the day of his birth, travel through space and time in order to negotiate a peace for his people."

"But that can't be this ambassador," you point out, risking a glance at Wesley. "He's old. Right? He's gotta be... 65, at least."

"He's about three hundred," Wesley says.

"So the prophesy doesn't apply," Spike reasons. "If it did, he'd be a newborn."

"But that's the thing," says Fred. "He is. The Ambassador was born today; that's why this is the day that keeps repeating. Three hundred years in the future, he chooses to come back to today - his birthday - in order to fulfill the prophesy. Which... also means that as long as today continues to repeat, the day he leaves the future is repeating as well." She turns to Wesley with a sudden thought. "You know, I bet he's the one who tells the rest of the Ri'ipkis to begin storing the energy for time travel."

"Are you saying,” you ask carefully, “that there are two Ambassadors? An adult one, and a... baby one?"

"That’s exactly what we’re saying," says Fred. “Two Ambassadors. Physically, anyway. But really he's the same one, just... two different versions."

You’re already making the logical leap to what Wes and Fred’s plan is. "So... in order to stop the adult Ambassador,” you guess, “we have to... kill the baby?" You’re not liking this plan. At all.

Fred hesitates. "Well... yeah. If you stop him before he gets any older, then there's no way he can come back as an adult and make the day repeat." She takes in your dark expression and adds doubtfully, "Maybe you don't have to kill him... You might could just... kidnap him?"

"No," you say quietly. "It would have to be death. Prophesies have a way of fulfilling themselves, if you don't make sure that they can't."

"I'm sorry, Angel," says Fred. "It's the only thing we could think of that would work."

There's a short silence as all four of you contemplate the plan. Murdering a baby.

"What would happen?" Spike finally asks. "We do this, and... the grown Ambassador just buggers off?"

"Well, technically, he wouldn't exist," says Fred.

"Disappears in a puff of smoke, then."

"Not even that," she says. "He... just would never have been. At all."

"But that means..." You pause. "It would mean that... the day never would have repeated in the first place," you say slowly. "If he doesn't grow old and never comes back... then..."

Wesley and Fred look at each other. Fred sighs. "That's correct," says Wesley. "Once the infant Ambassador is killed, a paradox will exist in our timeline. To compensate, the day should immediately start again from the beginning of the Original Friday, without any of the repetitions having ever occurred."

It takes a moment for this to sink in, and once it does, you try frantically to find a flaw in the plan, so that it can't happen. You seize upon the first contradiction you can think of. "But if the day starts over, won't the baby just be born again? We'd have to kill it over and over, and we'd still never get past today."

"The theory," Fred explains, "is that when a paradox is created, whatever event comes chronologically first in the creation of it will be a constant even when the timeline rights itself."

"Which means what, exactly?" Spike asks. His voice sounds edgy, and you don't look at him.

"It means once you create the paradox by killing the baby, when our timeline jumps tracks to the Original Friday, the baby will die again without anyone having to kill it. The... the Ri'ipkis will never even know you had been there."

"And that won't create another paradox?" he presses.

"It shouldn't," she says. "Because the event of the baby's death will come chronologically before the event of the Ambassador's traveling backwards through time, the first event will cancel out the second one. So what will happen is... if the baby is killed today, we’ll immediately be living the Original Friday over from the beginning, the baby will die on its own, and then the next day will be Saturday. And none of these other Fridays we've already lived through will have ever existed at all." She sighs. "At least, that's the theory. There's no way to really know if it works until we try it. And if it does work... I guess we still won't know, huh?" She gives you a weak smile.

"We... we won't remember," Spike says slowly. "Any of it?" You feel him glance in your direction.

There's a lump in your throat that you're afraid to try talking around.

Wesley answers, "We don't know if we'll retain any memories of today. We can't really know until it's done, as Fred has said... but my guess is no, we won't remember any of it. How can we, if it never happened?" He looks over at you. You can still smell how he's feeling. "Besides," he says softly, "there are some things I think I'd prefer to forget."

Fred looks down.

After another silence, this one much longer than the first, Spike finally asks, "Where do we need to go?"

*

It's a long car ride. Feels long, anyway. Almost twenty minutes to the building the Ri'ipki clan is currently living underneath, and can you really even do this? After you died to remember these Fridays, can you really just... throw them all away again?

That's what makes the ride feel long. The wondering.

Spike drives. You'd managed to make your legs walk from the lab to the elevator, somehow managed to survive the silent trip down to the carpool, and even managed to drift over toward the Plymouth, but then you just stood there looking at it until Spike had slowly reached out a hand, and you dropped your keys into it without protest. When he opened the door for you to get in, it occurred to you for about the billionth time that he's stronger than you are. It occurred to you that that's the first reason you started loving him.

You didn't talk to Wesley. It somehow didn't seem very important anymore.

Twenty minutes isn't actually very long, after it's gone. When Spike stops the car in the underground parking lot, it suddenly hits you that this is it. It's over - it's time, and you're not ready. You're not ready! For God's sake, what have you even been doing? You sat here with Spike for the last twenty minutes that you'll ever love him, and you didn't even fucking say anything!

Spike puts the car in park and turns off the engine. He reaches for the door handle to get out. Everything is happening so fast.

"Spike!" you force through the tightness in your throat.

He pauses with his hand on the handle, but he doesn't turn toward you.

You have no idea what you're supposed to say to him. "Aren't you... I mean, shouldn't we... talk first?" you ask somewhat desperately.

His head bows a little, shoulders sagging, but he still doesn't look at you. "If we have to say a long goodbye," he responds softly, "I don't know if I'll make it, Angel."

"Please?" This is something you know you need. You touch his shoulder.

When Spike finally turns to look at you, his eyes are so helpless that your heart breaks before he even begins talking. "What do you want me to say, Angel?" he asks defeatedly. "You already know how I feel."

You slide your hand down to take his, carefully interlace your fingers. "Just... tell me again, while you still feel it. I... I need to hear you say it again."

He swallows. "Angel, I--" But his voice falters, and he has to start again. "I l...love you," he says. And then he takes a deep breath and blinks up at the ceiling before going on, "I have for a... very long time."

The hitch in his breath is what gets you.

You tug on Spike's hand, pull him slowly toward you across the seat, and wrap him up in your arms. Any second now, you're going to cry; you already know. And you feel like you shouldn't cry, like you should try not to for Spike's sake, and you feel selfish because you don't want to be here doing this, because you want to be anywhere else in the world and you want to stay there with Spike forever and not have to worry about timelines and paradoxes and fucking saving Nevada and killing babies. But you are going to cry because you can't not, and you're going to be here saying goodbye because you have to, and tomorrow you're not going to even know about these things, and you'll live with that because people keep telling you you're some kind of hero, although you've never hated being one quite as much as you do right now. You hold onto Spike tightly. It may be the last chance you get. And he lets himself be held, and his arms are around you too, and you sit there in the car like that for a while, holding each other.

"I love you, Spike," you say into his neck, and his whole body is trembling with the effort not to break down, and you can't tell if you're doing the same or if your own tremors are just echoes of his. "I don't know... what I'm going to do." Your throat keeps trying to close out the words. "How am I going to... without you, Spike, I don't..." And then your voice finally breaks, and the last part comes out on a half-sob. "What am I going to do?"

Hearing you start to cry makes Spike's own voice strained. "You'll be alright, Angel," he says slowly, trying to sound normal. "You won't... you won't even know."

You squeeze your eyes closed, feeling the tears roll down. "I'll know," you whisper. "I'm going to miss you so much... even if - if I don't remember that I love you, I'm still... going to miss you so much. I'll know I had something beautiful and perfect... and that I lost it... And I'm going to be so _sad_ , Spike." You lose your grasp on words for a moment, then swallow and tell him haltingly, "I haven't even had you for very long, and I... I want to keep you... Spike, please just... tell me how to keep you..."

"Wish I could," he whispers. "You don't know how much... I wish..."

"I've wasted so much time," you say, pressing your face to his neck. And somehow, through your tears, the things that you’ve been wanting to say to him all along begin to find a way out. "And now it's over and I don't... it's not enough! I want to know everything about you, about your life. I want to know all the things about you that no one else does... I want... to be the person you tell your secrets to, and the... the person people come to when they need to know what to get you for your birthday. I want to know what you did for a hundred years while I wasn't there, and I want to know... your favorite restaurant, and what you like to watch on television, and... and where you learned to be so _brave_ , Spike..." Your voice cracks on his name. "I want to know... I want to know why you love me," you tell him, "so I can be that all the time..."

"You are," he cuts in. "Angel, you are."

"...I want to take you somewhere where no one knows who we are and we wouldn't... we wouldn't have to do these things that hurt us and pretend like... like they don't hurt because we're strong. I want to explore you and discover you and memorize you, and I want to spend twenty-four hours straight just making love to you, Spike... and I want to do that every day, and I want... I want to do things to you that no one else has ever... even thought of, and I want to bite you again and I want to take care of you afterwards and I think... I think I'd like it if you did it to me..." You've never said this many words all at once before in your life, but you just can't stop. "I want to be there, Spike, when you get lonely, so that you don't have to be lonely anymore, and I want to... get drunk with you and talk about the things we miss from last century, and I want to draw you naked and, and fight demons with you and... Spike, there are things about you that I wish I could see in myself, and I - I want you to teach me how to... to be the way you are," you choke, "but there's just not enough..."

"Shh..." Spike tries calming you, rubbing his hands over your back. "Angel, we'll have... we'll have time for all of that. Tomorrow. Starting tomorrow, we'll have forever..."

You swallow, trying to steady your voice. It doesn't work. "You... you won't love me tomorrow."

"Angel, I will _always_..." he starts to respond, but then his voice breaks off abruptly, and he curses under his breath. "Can't even make you a promise I can keep..."

"This morning I told you that I would never leave you again, Spike," you say, "and now I have to and I... I don't know if I can..."

"You're not leaving me," he murmurs, not quite sounding convinced of this himself, but trying to all the same. "We're doing this together, Angel."

"I want you to know," you confess, "that I would do it all again. Every single second, I'd do again to be with you."

He doesn't say anything for a moment, but his face is near your ear and you can hear him still trying not to cry. "All of it?" he asks finally, softly. "You'd do all of it again?"

You take a deep, unsteady breath. "Yes. I would, Spike. Every minute."

"Then... let's do it again, Angel," he says slowly, his voice still a little shaky. "Let's... fall in love again. We don't... we don't have to be lonely. Tomorrow, we'll just start over from the beginning, and do it all again. Alright?"

"Start over?" you repeat. "But... how will we--"

"Remember what you said to me this morning? About things that are meant to be, happening no matter what?"

"Yes... I remember."

"Did you believe it?" The two of you still have your arms around each other, and you can feel Spike's breath near your ear.

"I... yes," you tell him. "Yes."

He pulls you tighter against him. "We both know this is right, what we have. And we know that... if this isn't how it happens, then it must happen some other way. Even if it takes another hundred years. We’re... meant to be. Yeah? And... that's the sort of thing that doesn’t change."

Even though he's repeating your own words back to you, they somehow sound better the way he says them. "Yeah..." you agree softly. “We’re... meant to be.”

"And that won't change," he says again. "Do you believe me, Angel?"

"Yes," you whisper. And it's not just because you want it to be true; you really do believe him. There's no way that you and Spike aren't destined for each other.

“So the question,” Spike goes on, sounding a bit more confident now, “isn’t ‘What will we do?’ It’s... it’s ‘Why the hell are we still sitting here, moaning like a couple of bloody schoolchildren?’”

You snort a tiny, unexpected laugh against his shoulder. “That’s the question?”

“Thought we were s’posed to be heroes or something,” he chides. “Ought to be in there saving the day, not out here feeling sorry for ourselves. ‘Specially when we know we end up together, have our happy ending. Don’t know what our problem is, really...”

He’s right. Of course he’s right. You sniff once more and swipe a hand over your eyes before slowly releasing your tight grip on Spike. But when you lean back and look at his face, he looks back at you in a way that doesn’t seem quite as confident as his voice had just sounded a moment ago. You put a hand up to his cheek, and he closes his eyes, letting two tears finally fall, and then opens his eyes again as you wipe one tear away with your thumb. Is it possible that he looks this beautiful even when he’s crying? “I’m glad,” you tell him softly, “that I get to fall in love with you again, Spike.”

He looks down at his hands.

“I think... we have a lot to look forward to,” you say, trying to smile.

“Yeah,” he quietly agrees. “We do.”

“Will you... will you promise me something, though?”

He looks up again. “Angel, I–”

“If you remember,” you interrupt. “Just promise me - if you remember any part of this - that when we start again, you won’t... you won't give up on me. Just promise me that, Spike.”

He takes your hand. "You know me. Not very big on the giving up thing, am I?”

You think about finding Spike on the floor of his apartment, and it’s your turn to look at your hands. “I just know that... sometimes I can be, you know, resistant, and I–”

“I’ll be relentless,” he assures you. "You'll love me whether you want to or not."

You exhale, then look back at him, into his eyes. “I want to love you, Spike," you tell him sincerely. "I want to love you, deeply and passionately and completely."

Spike draws your hand up to his face and presses a kiss into your palm. "You will," he says. And if you did have any doubts, they're immediately dissolved in the conviction you now hear in his voice. Relieved, you gently guide Spike's mouth forward to meet yours, wondering as you do if it will be a hundred more years before you have the chance to kiss him again.

It doesn't matter, though. You know that you will kiss Spike again, someday, and that is enough.

When the kiss ends, you each take a deep breath. You're still not ready to give Spike up; you never will be. But that's no longer what you're here to do. Now, you're just here to start over.

And that's something the two of you can do together.

*

The lair is deep underground. You and Spike drop silently through a nearby sewer access, find the tunnel Fred and Wesley described, and climb down through two more levels of tunnels before finally arriving at the entrance to the subterranean caves the Ri'ipkis call home.

It's very dark down here.

You have to turn sideways to fit through the crack in the cave wall. Spike follows you through the narrow tunnel this leads to, both of you pressed uncomfortably against the cold, jagged rock on either side. It's a good thing you're not claustrophobic. The ceiling dips lower the further in you go, and toward the end of the tunnel, you have to duck to keep going. Just as you start to question if you're in the right dank hole or not, the tunnel comes to an abrupt end, and you emerge into a large cavern that smells vaguely like fish.

There are three tunnels here that split off into different directions, not including the one you just came from. You and Spike listen carefully at the entrance to each tunnel and silently agree to take the one on the far left. In that direction, you can hear several hearts slowly beating the same weird rhythm. The Ri'ipkis are asleep.

It's easier to sneak down this tunnel than the previous one because it's wider. Along the way, you pass carved-out rooms on either side, each containing a pair of sleeping demons on beds that look like human beds, in rooms that have other human-looking furniture as well. It's disturbing to you how closely they actually resemble humans, how they're able to sleep peacefully as you and Spike creep through their home to kill one of their children.

The nursery is the farthest room down this long tunnel. It probably has something to do with protecting the children, putting them at the very end. The room is actually far away from all the others, far enough that you can now only hear one Ri'ipki heartbeat as you enter the room. His. Would the other Ri'ipkis even hear him if he cried?

There's a bassinet in the center of the room. You and Spike approach it slowly, look inside. There in the middle, swaddled in thick yellow blankets, is a newborn Ri'ipki infant, small and fragile-looking. You stare at it. This just... doesn't seem right.

"Want me to do it?" Spike asks softly. These are the first words he's said since you were sitting in the car.

"No," you murmur, watching the baby. "I'll do it."

The baby opens its big eyes, blinks sleepily up at you and yawns. Its skin is a grayish blue color and it doesn't have a nose, but besides that, and besides how large its blue eyes are as they look up at you, it seems almost human. At any rate, it doesn't seem evil.

You slowly reach inside the bassinet and put your hand around its neck.

All of a sudden, a powerful force throws both you and Spike back from the baby bed. You hit the stone wall hard, and your vision swims for a moment before clearing again. You expect to land on the ground, but you don't; you're being held against the wall by the invisible force. Spike, though, is slumped unconscious on the floor a few feet away, having cracked his head against a rock.

"Do you know what time it is, Mr. Angel?" a smooth voice asks from the doorway. "It's 2:31. Wasn't our appointment scheduled for two o'clock?"

Before you can think anything further than Shit, you're flying through the air again, this time across the room. You crash into the opposite stone wall with your shoulder first, but you still don't fall down, just hanging there against the wall like a piece of modern art. You're struggling to push yourself away from the wall when the adult version of the Ambassador strides fully into the room and turns to face you.

He's got one hand up at about chest level, as though physically holding you in place against the wall. "Tell me... you're not here to do anything stupid, are you?" he asks.

You can feel blood running down your temple. "Just... visiting a friend," you answer, trying not to cringe at the pain. "I missed you so much yesterday, I thought maybe I'd stop by for a round of peek-a-boo."

The Ambassador sighs and flicks his fingers once. Your body comes away from the wall and slams back into it, hard, driving the air out of your lungs. "I thought we got past these ridiculous stunts when I killed you," he says.

"Yeah, the whole killing me thing?" you gasp, "didn't really stick." The back of your head is also bleeding now. There's no way for you to get down.

"Perhaps," the Ambassador suggests, "the second time it will." He moves his hand up a little, and you feel pressure around your neck, squeezing, slowly cutting off your air supply. You know he can't kill you this way, but it still hurts like a bitch.

"You won't... kill... me..." you wheeze. Over the Ambassador's shoulder, you can still see Spike crumpled motionless on the floor.

The Ambassador looks mildly surprised. "Oh, really? And why is that?" The pressure around your neck suddenly eases, but you're still being held against the rock wall, about two feet above the floor.

"Because you need me," you tell him hoarsely. "You need me to sign your little contract. Or else all of this was for nothing."

"Now, that's not entirely true," he tells you conversationally. "I just need the signature of the CEO of Wolfram and Hart. If I let you die, how long do you think I'll have to wait before there is a new one?"

Oh. He has a point.

"At least a day," you guess. "But then your prophesy wouldn't come true. I'm the only CEO there is today." You're hoping this is the case, anyway. It didn't occur to you to ask Spike if another CEO had been appointed the last time you were killed.

"Prophesies," the Ambassador huffs. "As if anyone puts stock in prophesies anymore." He flicks his fingers again, and again your body comes away from the wall and slams back into it. You start coughing. You can taste blood. "I didn't even know about the silly thing until you mentioned it yesterday."

"What?" you cough. "I mentioned it? When did I mention it?" You only found out about the prophesy today.

"Oh," he says, as though it's not important, "you know, when we were discussing our strategy... of course, I guess that hasn't happened for you yet." He sighs. "Forgive me, time becomes a little confusing when you can walk through it at will." He tilts his head speculatively. "Your hair is better in three hundred years, Mr. Angel. That's something for you to look forward to."

You're about to ask what the hell he's talking about when the Ambassador quickly turns his hand and your body suddenly flips upside-down, scraping against the rocks as it turns. You grimace.

"You're right, though," he says, looking down at your face. "I won't kill you. Part of our personal agreement, you know. If I kill you and let you stay dead, your firm will no longer represent us in the coming times. And I cannot let that happen, of course. We've made too much progress." Your body slowly begins moving higher, still upside-down, until your face is level with his. "On the other hand, we made no agreement about torture," he says.

"I haven't made any agreement with you, period," you growl.

"You will." He sounds completely confident about this. "And I'll be sure let you know how much more stubborn you are than you gave yourself credit for. You were convinced it wouldn't take long at all for your younger self to give in to our demands. I suppose you'd forgotten how idealistic you could be." He knocks your head back against the wall, and you flinch.

Your mind is trying to wrap itself around the implication of his words. In three hundred years, you make a deal with this guy to allow him to come back in time and torture you? That doesn't make any sense. "Maybe I knew I'd find a way to stop you," you tell him.

He narrows his eyes. "I know we don't trust each other, Mr. Angel, but there's no denying that in the future, you have a head for business. And it would be very, very bad for business if you lost us as clients. You would never send me here if you thought my life was at risk." You can't help noticing, though, that he glances uneasily at the bassinet. Making sure it's still safe.

Spike hasn't moved.

"I sent you here?" you ask. The best hope you have for a plan at this point is to keep the Ambassador talking. Maybe if you can keep it up long enough, it will give Spike time to awaken and... do something useful. Anything.

The Ambassador turns to you again, his noseless face looking much more satisfied than you would have liked. "Your instructions were very specific," he says. "You even told me which of your employees to invite to our little meeting. You said that the inclusion of those four would render you more susceptible to our... unique form of persuasion."

Wait. You told the Ambassador that having Wesley, Fred, Gunn, and Lorne in the meeting with you would make you more likely to sign the contract? But that's impossible. Surely future you would know that, if anything, having them there by your side would make you less likely to give in. Even in three hundred years, there's no way you would forget how important the support of your friends is to you.

You must have known you wouldn't have signed the contract... so why send the Ambassador back to make the day repeat? Why would you do that to yourself?

Unless future you felt confident that present you would find a way to kill the Ambassador. But why not just kill him in the future instead of sending him to die in the past? There must be another reason you wanted this day to repeat.

Over the Ambassador's shoulder, you glance at Spike. He's still slumped on the floor. Has he moved, though? He seems to be in a different position, but that could just be because you're seeing him upside down.

The Ambassador sees your eyes move and glances back at Spike as well. When he turns to you again, he seems annoyed. "You told me to disregard that one, that he wasn't important. Of course, he's turned out to be more trouble than I initially expected, but I suppose I'll not have to deal with that for much longer. The blond one is absent from my own time." The Ambassador's smile is malicious. "He dies tonight, you know."

Spike moves. You can see the movement from the corner of your eye, but you don't look at him because you don't want the Ambassador to notice.

"That's not true," you say quietly. Oh God. What if it is?

"Oh, it's quite true," the Ambassador replies cheerfully. "You told me so yourself. You witnessed his death in an alley. Killed by a... mabnex, I believe it was." He tilts his head. "You had an old photograph of him in your wallet." A pause. "The boy, of course, not the mabnex."

That must be it, then. As much as you don't want to believe it, that's got to be the reason you sent the Ambassador back in time to today - to prolong Spike's last day on earth. Were you hoping you could find a way to save him? Or was it just so you could finally say goodbye?

Three hundred years. Everyone you know now will be dead, even the one you would have counted on to live forever. How terribly, utterly lonely you must feel...

"Oh, it's not so bad, Mr. Angel," the Ambassador mock-sympathizes, taking in your crestfallen expression. "You still have your work, after all. No one knows better than I how good you are at running an efficient law firm."

Spike is getting up now, silent. He's looking at you, but you can't look back without giving him away.

"If you aren't going to kill me," you ask, "what are you planning to do?"

The Ambassador seems to consider this. "I suppose I could just leave you here, like this," he says finally, thumping your head against the wall for good measure, "until tomorrow. Then go on with our daily meeting as usual. You'll sign the contract eventually, and it's not as though I don't have the time to wait."

"What if... what if I said I would sign it now?" you ask him. Your head's bleeding again.

He gives you a suspicious look. "Obviously, Mr. Angel, I wouldn't believe you. Did you not come here to kill me?"

"A trade," you say. "I'm proposing a trade. My signature in return for... a small favor." You can still see Spike from the corner of your eye, now moving very slowly toward the bassinet.

"And what sort of favor would that be?" asks the Ambassador, actually looking intrigued despite himself, oblivious to Spike's movements.

You try willing Spike to stop and listen. "If I sign the contract," you say, "you have to guarantee Spike's life. Keep him from being killed."

The Ambassador frowns.

"That's all I ask," you tell him. "Simple enough, for someone who can travel in time."

"You want me to change the future," he says.

"Yes. I want Spike to live. If you can promise me he will, then I'll sign the contract." Spike is almost to the bassinet by now. He obviously hasn't been listening. Stop, you think desperately. Don't you know you'll die? What about starting over with me? Spike!

The Ambassador looks like he's thinking this over. "If I save his life..." he starts.

But now Spike is reaching into the bassinet, ready to snap the infant's neck.

You can't hold back anymore. "Spike, no!" you shout.

As soon as you say this, the Ambassador's complete attention is turned toward the center of the room, and he lets you fall, still upside-down, to the floor. You land on your head, and your vision blackens for a moment at the edges, but you struggle quickly to your feet. When you look up, the Ambassador has a hand raised in Spike's direction, but Spike is holding the baby up in front of his chest, and the Ambassador is frozen, unwilling to do to Spike what he's been doing to you for fear of hurting the baby.

"Careful," Spike says quietly. "Wouldn't want to have an accident here, would we?"

The Ambassador's eyes are wide. He looks from Spike to you and back again, not knowing what to do. The baby squirms.

"Spike, put the baby down," you say.

Spike looks at you as though you've lost your mind. "No," he says.

"Spike, you have to put the baby back down. This was... it was a bad idea. We shouldn't have come here."

"This is the only way to end it, Angel," he says. "We talked about this."

Of all the times for him to be stubborn. "But you know what will happen!" you say, voice raised angrily. "If we go back to the Original Friday, you'll die!" You can't believe that you had been so focused on the idea of losing Spike that the idea of really losing him wasn't the first thing that occurred to you when you heard the plan to begin with. You feel so stupid.

"Angel," Spike says. "I'm not going to die."

You take a step toward him. "Yes you are! I've seen it happen. Spike, please... don't do this. Don't leave me alone like this. We'll find another way."

"Angel," he says again. And his voice sounds patient, although he looks a little exasperated. "I'm not going to die."

"But... how can you know that?" you demand, fists clenched.

"Because we're meant to be," he says, as though it's the simplest, most obvious thing in the world. Then he adds, "Anyway, you're gonna save me."

And then he gives you a smile, and with a murmured, "Sorry, mate," to the stricken Ambassador, Spike quickly snaps the baby's neck.

*


	9. Today is Friday.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You wake up to the sun on your face.

*  
  
You wake up to the sun on your face.  
  
Like always, you flinch for a fraction of a second before you remember where you are. Bed. Right. Window, necro-tempered glass... no scary flames of death. You really should get some curtains so you won't have to go through this every single morning.  
  
You lie in bed for five minutes with your eyes still closed, try to hang onto that last wisp of a dream. It was a strange dream, you feel pretty sure, but... well, it doesn't matter now. After five minutes, you just let it go. You can’t really remember what it was about anyway.  
  
You get up, shower, dress like always. All in black. It suits you.  
  
Today is Friday. You’ve got that meeting at two o’clock. Then you’ll probably take off early. No one will mind; you’re the boss, after all.  
  
You take a moment to consider how much you hate this life. Then you sigh, straighten your collar, touch your hair one more time, and jab the down button on your private elevator. The doors open up and you step inside.  
  
This is how you start the day.  
  
*  
  
A mug of blood is waiting on Harmony’s desk for you when you arrive. It says #1 Boss on the side, and you wonder if she’s having some kind of private joke at your expense, but you dismiss the idea when you remember it’s Harmony. You pick up the mug.  
  
“So I was wondering if I could take off an hour early today,” Harmony says. “I mean, I’ve gotten all my work done already and there’s this really great sale at—”  
  
“Yeah, sure,” you tell her. Might as well.  
  
“Thanks, boss!” she says. Then she frowns at you. "What?"  
  
You're just standing there. "Aren't you... I mean, do you have anything else for me?" you ask.  
  
"Like what? Was I supposed to?"  
  
"I..." You frown. "I'm not sure."  
  
"There are some donuts in the break room," she offers. "I could get you one?"  
  
"No, I don't... want a donut." It just feels weird, not having something in your other hand. "Thanks, Harmony." You turn to go, carrying only your mug of blood.  
  
"Sure," she shrugs.  
  
Once in your office, you start sorting through the papers and folders on your desk, separating them into piles. You spend most of the morning reading, but the whole time you feel a little distracted, like there was something you were supposed to do and you can't remember what it is. You buzz Harmony.  
  
"Yeah boss?" she answers.  
  
"Will you tell me my schedule for the day?" you ask, feeling a little silly. "I just... want to make sure I'm not forgetting anything."  
  
"Let me see... You have a lunch meeting with Gunn," she says, "and then... the rest of your calendar is clear."  
  
This startles you. "I don't have a meeting this afternoon?" you ask.  
  
"Nope."  
  
"Are you sure?"  
  
"I'm sure," she chirps cheerfully.  
  
"Did it get cancelled?"  
  
"No," she says. You can hear pages flipping. "There was never anything scheduled for today." After a pause, she asks, "Are you okay, Angel?"  
  
"Yeah, I'm... fine. Thanks." You hit the disconnect button. That's weird. You could have sworn...  
  
At about noon, you get a call from Gunn. He wants to know if you're still on for lunch. You meet him and Wesley and Lorne in his office and order in.  
  
You sit next to Wesley. He glances at you and then away, and then back at you again, looking a little confused.  
  
"What?" you ask.  
  
He shakes his head. "Nothing."  
  
"No, really... what?" you ask.  
  
He opens his mouth to respond, then sort of chuckles and looks embarrassed. "I had a very strange dream last night," he finally says. "I think... I think you were in it."  
  
"You dreamed about Angel?" Gunn asks, raising an eyebrow.  
  
"What was it about?" you ask.  
  
He tilts his head, thinking. "You know, I can't really remember..."  
  
There's a knock on the door. It's Fred, and you're all pleasantly surprised.  
  
"We didn't think you'd make it, sugarplum," Lorne greets her.  
  
She smiles at him. "Well, I was working on this big project thing in the lab," she says, "and then it... suddenly didn't seem very important anymore." She shrugs a little.  
  
"What sort of project is it?" asks Wesley.  
  
"Just time travel," she says. "I can work on it later." She sits down. "Did I miss anything? What were y'all talking about?"  
  
"Wes dreamed about Angel last night," says Gunn.  
  
"Yeah? That's weird... so did I," she says. Then she frowns. "I can't really... remember it, though..."  
  
"I had a weird dream, too," you say, and everyone turns to you, four politely interested expressions. You suddenly feel sheepish. "I... can't remember mine either."  
  
"Well, y'all are lucky," Gunn says. "I dreamed I was a rodeo clown in a hell dimension. Not much I wouldn't give to forget _that_ one."  
  
Lunch is pleasant. It's nice chatting with your friends, although the whole time you still feel a little weird. Afterwards, you walk out of Gunn's office with Wes. "I keep feeling like there's something I'm supposed to do today," you tell him, "only I'm not sure what it is. That ever happen to you?"  
  
"It's funny you should mention it," Wesley says. "I've been feeling that way today myself."  
  
"You think it means anything?"  
  
"Probably just that we're working too hard. Spreading ourselves thin... You know, last night I stayed up very late typing some notes, and this morning I couldn't find them anywhere."  
  
"Notes about what?" you ask.  
  
"That's the thing. I haven't the foggiest."  
  
You chuckle. "You're right, Wes; I think you're working too hard."  
  
"Perhaps we should take a vacation," he says. "All of us. Not... necessarily together, but... a holiday would be nice, don't you think?"  
  
"Yeah," you say. "You have no idea how much I'm looking forward to this weekend."  
  
Since you don't have a meeting to go to, you just go back to your office, continue working where you left off. It occurs to you suddenly that you haven't seen Spike today. Which is odd... he usually stops by to bother you at least once a day. Oh well, it's not like you miss him. Could have done with the distraction, though.  
  
When Harmony leaves an hour early, you go ahead and cut out as well. The sun hasn't gone down yet so you don't go anywhere, but you pick a book from your bookshelf and settle down in your den to start reading.  
  
 _Don Quixote_ in the original Spanish. Classic. You haven't read it in a long time.  
  
After a few hours, you go up to your roof, look out at the lights of your city, at the moon. You try to remember what your dream was. It's been nagging at you. For some reason it seems important, but you just... can't quite grasp it.  
  
It's probably nothing. Just a dream.  
  
At about 11:30, you go for a walk. You come across two demons fighting in an alley; one of them is Spike. You approach silently and lean against the wall, watch them for a while. You know the moment when Spike notices you watching because, even though he doesn’t acknowledge your presence, his technique suddenly becomes much more careless. He's showing off.  
  
You roll your eyes. How predictable.  
  
In fact, the more you watch the fight, the more predictable it becomes. It's like you've seen the whole thing before. In your mind, you start calling the punches before they happen - first Spike fakes left and throws a right, then lets the other demon get two awkward licks and uses the momentum from one punch to spin himself around and kick the demon in the gut...  
  
It's the most powerful feeling of deja vu you've ever had.  
  
Finally, you've had enough. Spike has just backflipped neatly, kicking the demon in the face, when you decide to interfere. Quickly, efficiently, you stride over and pull the thing's head off.  
  
The body falls to the ground, purple blood spewing out of its bulbous neck and over your shoes.  
  
When you look up, Spike is standing there staring at you, in shock, holding a trashcan lid. "What the bloody hell was that?" he demands.  
  
"A mabnex," you tell him. You're not exactly sure where the word comes from, but once you've said it, it feels right.  
  
"Not _that_ , you moron," he says angrily, throwing the lid down with a clanging noise. "That stunt you just pulled, muscling in on my kill. What was that all about?"  
  
Oh, that. You frown. The real excuse sounds stupid: _Some freaky_ _deja vu made me feel really fucking uncomfortable._ So you shrug and say, "You were taking too long."  
  
"It was _my_ kill!" he insists.  
  
You glance down at the gooey body of the demon. "Well, I'm done with it now, if you want it back."  
  
"Oh, just sod off," he mutters. He turns to march out of the alley, long coat sweeping around his legs.  
  
But for some reason it doesn't feel right to just... let him walk away like that. You don't know why. You've got that weird feeling again that you've had all day, like there's something's missing or... you're incomplete somehow. And you've suddenly got this idea that it has to do with Spike, however strange that sounds.  
  
"Spike, wait," you say.  
  
He stops walking and turns toward you again. "What?"  
  
"Do you want to..." You pause, not entirely sure what you're about to ask him. "You wanna go get a drink or something?" And as soon as the words are out, you regret them. Of course he doesn't want to go get a drink with you. Shouldn't have even asked. Don't know what you were thinking.  
  
He doesn't say anything for a moment. Then, "Where?" he wants to know.  
  
"Oh, I don't... I mean, anywhere. My place."  
  
He glances around the alley, then back at you. Then he reaches up and scratches his neck, thinking. "Yeah, alright," he finally says.  
  
You're surprised. "Really?"  
  
He gives you a little shrug. "Today's been a weird day," he says. "Might as well have a weird night too."  
  
Not exactly what you expected to hear, but it's as good a reason as any. You just nod and head toward the alley entrance, intending to lead the way back to your apartment. As you move past Spike, though, your arm brushes by his arm lightly, and something happens that stops you in your tracks. You look up at him, startled.  
  
He's looking back at you, also a little startled, but not quite as much. "See?" he says quietly. "Weird."  
  
"Yeah," you breathe. You're looking into his eyes. They seem very... blue. You think about your dream. Whatever it is that you're missing, you're missing it even more now.  
  
"So," Spike prompts after a moment. "Could really do with that drink."  
  
You blink suddenly, coming back to yourself. Were you staring?  
  
"Um, yeah," you say, clearing your throat. "Let's go."  
  
*  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who read this story all the way through, and especially to those who left kudos or feedback - either when it was posted here to AO3 or years ago when it was first posted on Livejournal. This story took a lot out of me and still means so much to me, and it never would have happened without all the encouragement from other fans. Thank you. :)


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